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A NOVEL. 


17 TO 37 VANDEW/kTEf^ St 

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easide Library, Pocket Edition, Issued Tri weekly. By subscription $50 per annum 
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MARGERY DAW 


A NOVEL. 




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MARGERY DAW. 


CHAPTER I. 

“ Staxd back there! Move aside! Good heavens! 
Can’t you see the woman will die if you press about her in 
this way?” 

The speaker bent over the lifeless form as he uttered 
these words, and tried once more to pour a little stimulant 
between the pallid lips. The scene was one of indescriba- 
ble confusion. A collision had occurred between the Ches- 
terham express and a goods train, just a short distance 
from Chesterham Junction. Five of the carriages were 
wrecked. Fortunately three were empty; and the other 
two contained only three passengers — a man, who, with his 
arm bound up, was already starting to walk to the town; 
a boy, badly cut about the head, leaning pale and faint on 
a portion of the broken wood- work; and, lastly, a woman, 
who lay motionless on the bank, a thick shawl spread be- 
tween her and the cold damp earth. On discovery she had 
been removed from the debris, laid on the bank, and for- 
gotten in the excitemeut and terror. The rest of the pas- 
sengers had sustained only a severe shaking and bruises; 
and loud were their grumblings and expressions of self- 
sympathy as they clustered together on the bank, shivering 
in the gray autumn mist. A doctor who had been sum- 
moned from Chesterham ran his eye over the assembled 
people, strapped up the boy’s head, and skillfully set the 
broken arm of the man. It was while doing this that his 
glance fell on the prostrate form lying on the grass; and 
the sight of the pale bloodless face immediately brought a 
frown to his brow. 

“ What is the matter there?” he asked a passing porter. 

‘ * Lady in a faint, sir . 99 

The doctor fastened the last bandage, and with hurried 


6 


MARGERY DAW. 


steps approached the woman. A crowd followed him, and 
gathered round so closely as to cause him to request . them 
to “ stand back.” His words produced the desired effect, 
and the by-standers moved away and watched with breath- 
less interest his fruitless efforts to restore animation. 

The frown darkened on the doctor's brow; there was 
something more than an ordinary faint here. He raised 
the woman's head for another trial, and the mass of red- 
gold hair already loosened fell in glorious waves round the 
beautiful pale face, bringing a murmur of admiration from 
the beholders. The sudden action caused one limp cold 
hand to fall against the doctor's warm one, and at the con- 
tact he shuddered. He raised the heavily fringed eyelids, 
gave one look, then gently laid the woman's head down 
again, and reverently covered her face with his handker- 
chief. 

“ I can do nothing,” he said tersely, as if speaking to 
himself; “ she is dead!'' 

The crowd drew back involuntarily; some hid their 
faces, while others gazed at the slight form in its dark- 
brown dress as if they doubted the truth of his statement. 
Suddenly, while the doctor stood thoughtfully drawing on 
his gloves, one of the porters appeared in the crowd. He 
held a child in his arms — such a pretty child — with hair that 
matched the red -gold masses of the lifeless form on the 
bank, eyes that shone like sapphire stars from beneath her 
curling lashes, and a skin of cream white, with no warmth 
of color in the face save that of the small red lips. She 
was dressed in a little gray coat, all covered now with dust; 
in her tiny hands she clasped a piece of broken wood-work, 
holding it as though it were a treasure, and she glanced 
round at the by-standers with an air of childish piquancy 
and assurance. 

“ Whose child is this?” inquired the porter, looking 
from one to another. 

There was a pause; no one spoke, no one owned her. The 
porter's honest face grew troubled. 

“ Where does she come from?” asked the doctor quickly. 

“We have just picked her from under the roof of a sec- 
ond-class carriage,” the porter explained. 4 4 We were turn- 
ing it over — you see, sir, it fell some distance from the rest 
of the carriage — and when we lifted it we found this mite 
a-singing to herself and nursing her dolly, as she calls this 


MARGERY DAW. 


7 


piece of wood. It's by Heaven's mercy she ain't been 
smashed to bits; but she ain't got not even a bruise. She 
must belong to some one/' he added, looking round again. 

A lady in the crowd here stepped forward. 

“ Give her to me," she said kindly. 44 Perhaps she was 
traveling alone : if so, that will be explained no doubt by 
a letter or something. " 

But the child clung to the porter, her pretty brows puck- 
ered, her red lips quivering. 

44 Mammie!" she cried, plaintively. “ I wants my mam- 
mie!" 

The doctor turned and looked at the child and at that 
instant she suddenly wriggled and twisted herself from the 
porter's arms to the ground, and, running to the silent 
form lying on the bank, crouched down and clutched a bit 
of the brown dress in her hands. 

44 Mammie," she said, confidently, looking round with 
her great blue eyes on the circle of faces, all of which ex- 
pressed horror, pity, and sadness — 44 Mardie's mammie!" 

The doctor stooped, drew back the handkerchief, and 
glanced from the living to the dead. 

44 Yes," he said, abruptly; 44 this is her mother. Heaven 
have mercy on her, poor little soul!" 

The lady who had come forward went up to the child, 
her eyes filled with tears. She loosened the dress from the 
small fingers. 

“ Mardie must be good," she said, tenderly, 4 4 and not 
wake her mammie. Mammie has gone to sleep. ' ' 

The child looked at the still form, the covered face. 

“Mammie peep," she repeated; “Mardie no peak, 
mammie — be good, " and she lowered her voice to a whisper 
and repeated, 4 4 be good. " She suffered herself to be lifted 
in the kind, motherly arms, and pressed her bit of wood 
closer to her, humming in a low voice. 

“ We must find out who she is," the doctor said, his 
eyes wandering again and again to the dead woman. 44 She 
must be carried to the town; there will be an inquest." 

A passenger at this moment pointed to some vehicles 
coming toward them. They could not drive close to the 
spot, as a plowed field stretched between the railway and 
the road, and one by one the group dispersed, all stopping 
to pat the child's face and speak to her. The doctor gave 
some orders to the porter who had found the child, and a 


8 


MARGERY DAW. 


litter, formed of a broken carriage-door, was hastily im- 
provised. As the crowd withdrew, he knelt down by the 
dead woman and with reverent hands searched in the pock- 
ets for some clew. He drew out a purse, shabby and 
small, and opening this, found only a few shillings and a 
railway ticket, a second-class return from Euston to Ches- 
terham. In an inner recess of the purse there was a folded 
paper, which disclosed a curl of ruddy gold hair when 
opened, and on which was written — “ Baby Margery's hair, 
August 19 th.” 

The doctor carefully replaced it. A key and a tiny old- 
fashioned worthless locket were the remainder of the con- 
tents. He checked a little sigh as he closed the purse, 
and then proceeded to search further. A pocket-handker- 
chief with the letter “ M. 99 in one corner, and a pair of 
dogskin gloves, worn and neatly mended, were the next 
objects, and one letter, which — after replacing the gloves 
and handkerchief — he opened hurriedly. The lady, still 
holding the child in her arms, watched him anxiously. 
The envelope, which was already broken, was addressed to 
“ M. care of Post-Office, Newtown, Middlesex.” The doctor 
unfolded the note. It ran as follows: 

“ Mrs. Huntley will engage ‘ M.* if proper references 
are forwarded. Mrs. Huntley would require ‘ M. * to begin 
her duties as maid, should her references prove satisfactory, 
as soon as possible. ‘M.V statement that she speaks 
Erenctqand German fluently has influenced Mrs. Huntley 
to reconsider the question of salary. She will now give 
4 M . 9 twenty-five pounds per annum, for which sum ‘ M. ’ 
must undertake to converse daily with Mr. Huntley s 
daughter in French and German, in addition to her duties 
as maid. Mrs. Huntley desires that ‘ M . 9 will send her 
real name by return of post. 

“ Upton Manor, Nr. Liddlefield, Yorkshire. 

“Nov. 15th, 18—.” 

The doctor handed the note to the lady, who read it 
through quickly. 

“ That does not give much information,” he observed, 
rising from his knees. 

“ Dated yesterday — received this morning. We must 
relegraph to this Mrs. Huntley; who knows? — the poor 


MARGERY DAW. 9 

creature may have sent her references, with her full name, 
before starting from London. ” 

4 4 Yes, you are right; we must do that. But what is to 
become of the child Are you staying here for long, ma- 
dame?” 

44 No,” replied the lady; 44 1 had intended to travel 
straight on to the North. But I shall remain in Chester- 
ham for the night, and continue my journey to-morrow. I 
wish I could delay it longer; but unfortunately my son is 
ill in Edinburgh, and I must get to him as soon as possi- 
ble. However, I will take care of this poor little mite to- 
night. I hope by the morning we shall have discovered 
her friends and relations . 9 3 

44 If you will do that,” said the doctor, 44 1 will see to 
the mother. I must have the body carried to the infirm- 
ary.” 

He beckoned as he spoke to the porter, who was stand- 
ing at a little distance talking to the crowd of navvies who 
has arrived to clear the line, and the dead woman was 
lifted on to the litter, and covered with a rug belonging to 
the lady who had taken charge of the child. She watched 
the proceedings with a feeling of unspeakable sadness, and, 
as the melancholy burden was carried toward one of the 
cabs, she clasped the child closer to her breast, and tears 
stole down her cheeks. 

The baby, cooing to her strange doll, looked up as they 
moved across the field. She put up one little hknd and 
rubbed away a tear from the motherly face. 

44 No kye,” she said, in her pretty lisping fashion. 
44 Mardie dood — she no kye. ” 

The lady kissed the small lips. 

44 Mardie is a sweet angel,” she whispered; 44 and now 
she shall come with me to a pretty place and have some 
nice dinner.” 

44 Din, din,” said the child, nodding her head with its 
wealth of red-gold curls. 4 4 Mardie Tmgry. Mammie a 
din-din, too? 5 ' 

The lady shivered. 

44 Yes, mammie will go to a pretty place too,” she an- 
swered hurriedly. 

When they reached the cab, the doctor came up to them. 

44 If you will allow me to suggest. The Plow is the best 
hotel. I would come with you, but I must drive straight 


10 


MARGERY DAW. 


to the infirmary. Give me the child for a moment while 
you get in. She has lost her hat, poor little thing; but the 
town is not far off, and the best place for her will be in 
bed.” 

Mardie went willingly to the doctor's arms. She prat- 
tled to him about the “din -din” and “ mammie,” but 
much was unintelligible to him. She did not ask for her 
mother or seem strange. “ Mammie a peep,” she asserted 
several times in a whisper; and she was content with the 
two kind beings whose hearts were heavy with pain as they 
thought of the long dreary path she must tread henceforth 
without a touch from the loving hands or a word from the 
tender voice she knew so well. 

“ There, madame,” and the doctor placed the small gray- 
clad form in the cab. This poor little mite can not thank 
you herself; but, if you will allow me in humanity's name 
to offer you gratitude — ' ' 

The lady stopped him. 

“ I have done no more than my duty. I thank you, sir, 
for your courtesy. Will you kindly let me know as early 
as possible the results of your telegram? I will go to The 
Plow; my name is Graham.'' 

“ And mine Scott. I will certainly let you know the 
instant I receive any intelligence. Something must be 
done with this child; but that is for to-morrow's considera- 
tion. She is safe in your hands for to-night.'' 

Dr. Scott raised his hat, and the cab started along the 
country lane toward Chesterham. Mrs. Graham drew Mar- 
die on to her knee, and tried to chat to the child; but her 
whole nervous system was so shattered by the events of the 
past hour that the effort was vain. 

Chesterham was a large manufacturing town. The news 
of the collision had spread rapidly, and, although the No- 
vember dusk was closing in, crowds were thronging to the 
scene of the disaster. Mrs. Graham leaned back in a cor- 
ner to escape the eager eyes, for she knew the story of the 
young mother's death would be known by now, and her 
natural refinement and delicacy shrunk from vulgar curi- 
osity and hysterical excitement. The cab soon rattled into 
Chesterham, and, after a short journey through the lamp- 
lighted streets, stopped before the door of The Plow. Mar- 
die was handed out to a pretty-faced chamber-maid, whose 
bright cap-ribbon immediately claimed the child's atten- 


MARGERY DAW. 


11 


tion, and Mrs. Graham followed slowly and wearily up the 
stairs, feeling her strength go at every step. The babyish 
voice and shrill peals of laughter echoed in her ears as the 
wail of future grief; her eyes were fixed on the small form, 
but her thoughts were with the dead young mother. 

She dismissed the maid when she reached her room, and, 
drawing Mardie to her, began to loosen the gray coat, 
which bore traces of dainty design beneath the dust and 
dirt. For the first time the child seemed to feel her loss. 

“ Mammie undress Mardie,” she said, putting up one 
little hand. “ Mammie peep now, but wake soon.” 

“ Mammie would like Mardie to take off her coat like a 
good girl,” Mrs. Graham replied, feeling instinctively that 
the youthful mind grasped already the meaning of love and 
duty. 

The child dropped her hand and nodded her head, then 
submitted to have the coat removed. She was neatly 
dressed in a dark-red cashmere frock, made loose like a 
blouse; she wore a tiny thread of gold round her neck with 
a little heart-shaped pendant suspended. Mrs. Graham 
took it in her hand, eagerly hoping to find some clew; but, 
on turning it, her eyes rested on a miniature of the moth- 
er’s lovely face. 

“ Mardie’s mammie,” exclaimed the child, taking it and 
kissing it — “ dear mammie!” — then, with infantile change- 
ableness, she rushed with a little shriek to the door where 
a kitten had just appeared, and with great delight picked 
up the downy little creature and caressed it. 

The advent of dinner soon attracted her attention, and 
she prattled away merrily in her baby-language while the 
dishes were carried in. Mrs. Graham forced herself t 
talk to the child, and tried to divert her mind from i s 
gloomy thoughts by devoting herself to the task of tendiiu 
the little one. She was not a young woman, and the 
events of the day had proved almost too much for her nerv- 
ous system; but with true unselfishness she tried to forget 
her own troubles in ministering to the tiny atom of human- 
ity thrown so cruelly upon the world’s ocean, with mayhap 
no haven or port of love and affection to look to. 

She lifted Mardie on to a chair, and was about to give 
her some food, when the door opened, and, looking up in 
surprise, she saw a lady, young and handsome, attired in a 
riding-habit, enter the room. 


12 


MARGERY DAW. 


CHAPTER II. 

“ I must apologize for this intrusion,” began the 
stranger, as she closed the door; “ but my errand I trust 
will excuse me. ” 

“ What may I do for you?” asked Mrs. Graham, rising. 

“ Let me introduce myself,” said the young lady, with 
a pretty smile. “ I am Lady Coningham, wife of Sir Hu- 
bert Coningham of the Weald, Hurstley, a village about 
three miles out.” 

Mrs. Graham bowed. 

“ I heard of the terrible accident while returning from a 
long run, and I rode over immediately to make inquiries. 
I have learned every thing. '•' She stopped for an instant, 
and then asked, “ Is that the child?” 

“ Yes,” replied Mrs. Graham briefly. 

“ Poor thing!” murmured Lady Coningham involun- 
tarily. She moved forward and bent over the child, strok- 
ing back the rich golden-red curls. “ Poor wee thing! 
How pretty she is!” 

Mardie smiled and showed her pearly teeth as she rapped 
her spoon impatiently on the table. 

4 4 Din-din,” she cried eagerly — “ Mardie so 'ungry!” 

Lady Coningham stood by while Mrs. Graham prepared 
the child's meal. She said nothing, but two tears rolled 
down her cheeks and fell upon her well -gloved hand. As 
soon as the child was well started, she turned and mo- 
tioned Mrs. Graham to the fire-place. 

“ Can you tell me anything about her?” she asked 
quickly. 

Mrs. Graham shook her head. 

“We have no idea,” she answered; then she S])oke of 
the letter and the doctor's intention of telegraphing to Mrs. 
Huntley. 

“Yes — yes, that will be best. My object in coming 
here, Mrs. Graham, was to speak about the child. I met 
Doctor Scott, who told me briefly of the mother's death 
and your kindness; and I hurried here to see what I could 
do. Sir Hubert is one of the magistrates; therefore, as his 
wife, I consider it my duty to take up the case. Perhaps 


MARGERY DAW. 


13 


my efforts will not be required for long — I sincerely hope 
not — it will be a sad lookout for this baby if we can not 
find her friends. " 

“It is the merest chance/' Mrs. Graham observed. 
“ This lady in Yorkshire may have received the name and 
references. I earnestly trust she has. " 

“ If not, we must consider what to do with her/' said 
Lady Coningham. “ I would give everything I possess to 
be able to carry her home with me; but" — she sighed a 
little—“ that is out of the question. " 

“You have children?" inquired Mrs. Graham gently, 
attracted by the other's sweet expression. 

“ No," Lady Coningham answered slowly. “ I had one 
once, but — but it is gone. " She bent to kiss Mardie's soft 
little cheek as she . spoke, and again teal’s welled into her 
eyes. 

“ I am glad you have come," said Mrs. Graham, after a 
pause, “ for it would have gone to my heart to leave the 
child without some kind hand to minister to it occasionally. 
I must go North to-morrow; but I feel now that, should 
the worst happen and we find no clew, you will care for 
this poor little flower. ' ' 

“ I will do all in my power for her," returned the younger 
woman; “ but do not let me keep you from your dinner — 
indeed you must want it." 

Mrs. Graham rose and seated herself at the table. She 
felt weak and faint, but eating was almost an impossibility. 
Mardie, her food finished, put her hands together and 
whispered a grace, then wriggled down from her chair and 
went to the fire. 

“ She must go to bed," said Mrs. Graham, rising again 
and ringing the bell; “ she is growing tired now. " 

The words were quickly verified, for the little head sud- 
denly began to droop, and the beautiful eyes to grow misty 
and sleepy: but, as Lady Coningham, who had hurriedly 
removed her gloves, knelt and began to unbutton her frock, 
the little child pushed her away and looked round with a 
sudden quick feeling of fear and strangeness. 

“ Where Mardie's mammie — where a mammie?" she 
murmured. 

“Mammie is asleep," said Mrs. Graham soothingly, 
dreading a fit of terror. 


14 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Mammie peep? Mardie want a mammie. Mammie 
come a Mardie, come a Mardie!” 

She ran to the door of the room and tried to reach the 
handle. Lady Ooningham picked her up. 

“ If Mardie will be a very good little girl, she shall have 
some goodies — such pretty goodies. See — here comes 
Mardie's bath! She is going to be such a clean little 
girl. ” 

Mardie sat still, but her small hands were clasped to- 
gether, and her little chest heaved with sobs. Then, as the 
bath was put before the fire, and, looking from one to the 
other, she could see nowhere the sweet tender face that 
had smiled on her every day of her young recollection, she 
burst into a tempest of tears, and, struggling from Lady 
Coningham's hold, ran wildly round the room in a 
paroxysm of fear, calling for her “ mammie. ” 

For several minutes their coaxing tenderness was in 
vain; but after awhile the maid succeeded in attracting her 
attention with a gaudily painted sugar parrot, which she 
had purchased at a confectioner's shop near by. The tears 
were all spent, nothing but sobs remained, and the parrot 
came as a welcome bright spot in her small world of 
grief. 

“ Pitty — pi tty,” she murmured, clasping it to her breast 
and hugging it. Then she grew so sleepy that she was 
scarcely conscious of their hands removing her clothes, and 
her head drooped like a tired flower as they put on a night- 
gown borrowed from the landlady. She needed no lullaby 
to coax her to slumber now, and was lost in dreamland as 
the maid carried her gently into the bedroom. 

Lady Ooningham stood and gazed, as if held by some 
magnetic power, at the tjny face pressing the pillow, at the 
clusters of red-gold curls falling in such rich profusion 
around it. She was lost in the memory of the brief joy 
that had come to her only two short years before, and lived 
once again in the unspeakable happiness of motherhood. 

The sound of a deep voice broke her m usings, and, 
stealing softly from the bed, she entered the sitting-room 
and gave her hand to Dr. Scott. 

“ What news?” she asked hurriedly. 

Dr. Scott handed her a telegram, then seated himself 
by the table, leaning his head on his hand. 

Lady Ooningham hastily rea l the words — 


MARGERY DAW. 


15 


“ From Mrs. Huntley, Upton Manor, Liddlefield, to 
Doctor Scott, Chesterham, — am distressed to hear of acci- 
dent and the poor woman’s death. I can give you no in- 
formation, as I have received no reply to my last letter to 
6 M . 9 Pray let me know if I can be of any pecuniary as- 
sistance. 99 

Lady Coningham put down the paper quietly. 

“ What is to be done now?” she asked. 

4 4 1 have telegraphed to Newtown,” replied Dr. Scott, 
looking up, 44 to the post-office there, but, as yet, have re- 
ceived no reply. They may know something, but I can 
not help thinking the poor creature had some reason for 
secrecy, and I am doubtful as to success. ” 

Mrs. Graham was reclining wearily in an arm-chair by 
the fire. She spoke now as the doctor finished. 

44 1 wish from my heart I could take the child, but it is 
out of the question, at any rate just now. My son is 
studying at Edinburgh University; he unfortunately 
caught a severe cold, and is now prostrate with rheumatic 
fever. My every moment will be with him; but, if you 
will place the poor mite with some kind people for a time. 
Lady Coningham, I will add my share to the expense, 
though frankly I am not by any means wealthy.” 

44 1 know of a person,” began the doctor; but Lady 
Coningham broke in eagerly — 

44 1 will take her to Hurstley. There is a poor young 
woman, the wife of one of my gardeners, almost heart- 
broken through the death of her baby. Her cottage is not 
far from the Weald. I pass it every day in my rides, and I 
could see the child very often. Let her come there to- 
morrow before you start. I will see Mrs. Morris to-night 
as I go home. ” 

44 That seems an excellent plan,” agreed the elder wom- 
an at all events, for a time; but we must leave no stone 
unturned to find her relations.” 

44 Will Sir Hubert like the arrangement, yourladyship?” 
asked Dr. Scott, as he rose to depart. 

Lady Coningham's face flushed slightly. 

44 1 will make it all right,” she replied, though with a 
little constraint. 44 Fortunately, Morris is a favorite with 
him.. But now I must go; it is very late, and I have a 
long ride. Lest we should not meet again before you 


16 


MARGERY DAW. 


start, Mrs. Graham, let me say now how pleased I am to 
have made your acquaintance, though the introduction has 
been a sad one. I will let you know early in the morning. 
Dr. Scott, if I have succeeded; and may I ask you to send 
the child over?” 

The doctor bowed, and opened the door. 

44 I will come down and assist you to mount. Your 
groom is with you, I trust?” 

44 Oh, yes!” Lady Coningham smiled another farewell 
to Mrs. Graham, and was passing out, when a thought 
struck her. 44 Suppose,” she said hurriedly, 44 suppose I 
can not do this, what will become of the child?” 

44 She must go to the work-house,” replied Dr. Scott 
gloomily; 44 my hands are too full already, as your lady- 
ship knows, and there is no other alternative.” 

Lady Coningham could not repress a shudder. 

44 That must never be,” she said decidedly. 44 1 must 
arrange with Morris. Many thanks. Good-bye!” 

Mrs. Graham rose early the next morning. Her sleep 
had been troubled and restless; but the child had never 
moved, and still slept on placidly as she dressed herself 
quietly. Dr. Scott was announced about half past eight, 
and his face showed that he had gained no further infor- 
mation. 

44 The post-office can give me no clew,” he said. 

44 They recollect the woman 4 M./ and describe her accur- 
ately; but she received no letters save three addressed to 
her initial; consequently we are just where we were. Lady 
Coningham has sent her groom to say that Mrs. Morris 
will receive the child, so when she is dressed I had better 
take her over there myself.” 

Mrs. Graham assented with a sigh, and then rang for 
the maid to assist her in preparing Margery for the jour- 
ney. The little one was very good; she submitted to her 
bath in brightness, and only now and then would turn her 
head to look for her mother. Already she seemed to know 
Mrs. Graham, and raised her lips many times to be kissed, 
her childish affection sending a pang of pain through the 
woman's heart. At last all was ready; the little gray 
coat, well brushed and repaired, was donned, a silk hand- 
kerchief tied over the red gold curls, and the beloved par- 
rot clutched in a tight embrace. Mrs. Graham knelt for 
one brief moment by the small form, and a silent prayer 


MARGERY DAW. 17 

went up to Heaven for mercy and protection; then she led 
the child to the doctor. 

“I will write from Edinburgh," she said hurriedly; 
i 4 perhaps, after all, I shall be able to manage something 
in the future; and here ” — handing two sovereigns to the 
doctor — 4 4 is my small share toward present expenses. 
When will the inquest be?” 

44 To-day,” returned Dr. Scott, picking Margery up in 
his arms. 

44 And she will be buried where?” again asked Mrs. 
Graham quickly. 

44 It must be a pauper's funeral,” he answered sadly; 
44 any other would cost too much.” 

44 Can we not get up a subscription? The railway com- 
pany should give something. It seems so dreadful that she 
should be buried in a pauper's grave, with no stone above 
her.” 

44 1 will do my best to prevent it,” Dr. Scott said kind- 
ly. 44 Your suggestion about the railway is -good, and I 
will communicate with the directors to-day. Whatever 
happens in the future, you, madame, have acted nobly, 
and this child owes you a debt of gratitude. " 

44 Ah, I wish I could keep her with me always!” Mrs. 
Graham responded, kissing the little cheek once more. 
44 1 must say good-bye now. I will write to you in a day or 
two. Will you let me know if any news reaches you, and 
where you bury the poor mother?” 

44 1 will," answered the doctor; then he turned away 
and carried the child, still happy and unconscious of her 
terrible loss, down the stairs, to his trap; and, taking the 
reins, he drove rapidly through the town to the village of 
Hurstley. 


CHAPTER III. 

44 Stuart, where are you going?" 

The question was put in a cold sharp voice, and came 
from a lady sitting at her writing-desk in a spacious win- 
dow-recess overlooking extensive grounds. She was a 
handsome woman, with rather massive features and a pro- 
fusion of dark-brown hair artistically arranged. Her eyes, 
of a light green-gray shade, were fixed at this moment on 


18 


MARGERY DAW. 


a young man standing in an easy graceful attitude outside 
the French window. 

“ Going, mother?” he responded. “ Nowhere in par- 
ticular. Do you want me?” 

Mrs. Crosbie examined her firm white hands for one 
brief second. 

‘ 4 Have you forgotten what to-day is?” she asked 
1 quietly. 

The young man pondered, puckered his handsome 
brows, and pretended to be lost in doubt. 

“ I really forget,” he answered, after awhile, looking- 
up with a mischievous twinkle in his brown eyes. “ Thurs- 
day, I believe; but you have your almanac close to your 
hand, mother.” 

“ This is Thursday, the 22d of July, Stuart,” observed 
Mrs. Crosbie, putting down her pen and looking fixedly at 
her son. “ And this afternoon your Aunt Clara and 
Cousin Vane will arrive, and you are expected to meet 
them at Chesterham Station.” 

“ By Jove,” exclaimed Stuart, with a soft whistle, “ I 
had clean forgotten them!” He pushed his hands into 
his tennis-coat pockets and regarded his shoes with almost 
a real pucker on his brow. “What time are they due?” 
he asked, after a brief silence. 

Mrs. Crosbie took up a letter and read aloud : 

“ s We shall arrive at Chesterham by the 12 express 
from Euston, reaching the junction about 6:30. Pray let 
somebody meet us/ ” 

“I call that cool,” observed the young man shortly. 

“ But I suppose Aunt Clara can not do a thing for her- 
self. However, it need not entail my going; she only says 
* somebody/ and I am nobody.” 

“ Your father will expect his sister to be treated with 
respect,” was his mother's icy reply. 

“ And I trust he will not be disappointed,” responded 
Stuart; “but to trudge to Chesterham in this heat will 
be enough to roast a fellow.” 

“ I have ordered the barouche,” Mrs. Crosbie told him. 

“ Yane must lean back comfortably — she is so delicate.” 

Stuart Crosbie buried his toe in the well-kept lawn and 
made no answer to this. His mother watched him keenly, 
though he was unaware of her scrutiny. 


MARGERY DAW. 


19 


“ Well?” she said at last. 

“ Well?” he replied, looking up. 

“ Stuart, I do not often express my wishes, but to-day I 
particularly desire you should go to Chesterham and meet 
your aunt and cousin.” 

Stuart removed his felt tennis-hat and bowed low. 

“ My lady-mother,” he said lightly, “ your wishes shall 
be obeyed.” 

He put on his hat and strolled away, while a frown set- 
tled on his mother's face. She tapped her writing-table 
with her pen, in evident vexation; but after awhile her 
brow cleared, as if some new thought had come into her 
mind and by its bright magic dispelled the cloud. 

Stuart Crosbie sauntered on over the lawn. A moment 
before he had grumbled at a prospective walk in the heat 
when the day would be declining, yet now he made no 
haste to get out of the sun’s rays, although trees whose 
spreading branches promised shade and -coolness studded 
his path. He had pushed his hat well over his eyes, and 
with his hands still in his pockets dawdled on, as if with no 
settled purpose in his mind. 

He had strolled in a circuitous route, for, after progress- 
ing in this fashion for some time, he looked up and found 
himself almost opposite to the window — though at a dis- 
tance — from which he had started. His mother’s head 
was clearly discernible bent over her writing, and, waking 
suddenly from his dreams, he left the lawn, betook himself 
to a path, and made for a gate at the end. The lodge- 
keeper’s wife was seated at her door, having brought her 
work into the air for coolness. She rose hurriedly as she 
perceived the young squire striding down the path, and 
opened the gate. 

“ Why did you trouble, Mrs. Clark?” said Mr. Crosbie 
courteously. ‘ ‘ I could have managed that myself. ” 

“ Law sakes, Master Stuart, my good man would be 
main angry if he thought I’d let you do such a thing!” 

“ Jim must be taught manners, ” Stuart laughed lightly. 
“ How do you like this weather?” 

Mrs. Clark mopped her brow with her apron. 

“ It’s fair killing, sir,” she answered; never remind 
me of such a summer. But folks is never content. May- 
hap what tries me is good for others— your young lady 


20 


MARGERY DAW. 


cousin for one, sir. Mrs. Martha tells me she is very 
weakly like.. She be coming to-day.” 

“ I have vivid recollections of Vane as a child,” Stuart 
remarked, more to himself than to the woman: 44 and cer- 
tainly I can testify to her strength then, for she boxed my 
ears soundly.” 

“ Laws, Master Stuart!” ejaculated Mrs. Clark. 44 What 
a little vixen!” 

44 But these are tales out of school,” laughed the young 
man; 44 and I fancy I tormented her pretty freely in those 
days. Ta-ta, Mrs. Clark ! Go back and have a nap — sleep 
is the best way to pass these hot days.” 

44 Now, if he ain’t the best and kind-heartedest boy in 
the whole world!” mused Mrs. Clark, watching him as he 
strode along the lane. 44 Just like his father, poor gentle- 
man!” 

Mi*. Crosbie went along the road at a fast pace, and did 
not slacken his speed till he sighted a few cottages that de- 
noted a village. Then he moderated his pace, and saun- 
tered into the one street, hot and parched with thirst. 

44 Phew!” he exclaimed to himself, taking off his hat 
and waving it to and fro vigorously. 44 I must have some- 
thing to drink. I wonder if Judy keeps soda-water?” 

44 Judy ” was the owner of a small shop, the one window 
of which displayed a heterogeneous mass of articles — 
comestibles, wearing apparel, tops, and scissors. It did 
not look very inviting, but thirst must be quenched, and 
better things might be in store behind the counter. So 
Stuart raised the latch and entered the cottage. 

44 Soda-water, Master Stuart?” repeated Mrs. Judy, in 
amazement. 44 I scarce count on what you mean. There’s 
pump-water, if you like, or may be a glass of milk.” 

Mr. Crosbie hesitated for a moment, then decided for the 
latter. 

44 It is a long time since I drank so innocent a beverage, 
Judy,” he observed, putting down the glass with a slight 
shudder. 

4 4 Ay, there ain’t much ’arm in milk,” responded Judy. 
44 But, laws, Master Stuart, you do look warm! Will you 
’ave a chair and set in the door- way to cool a bit? There’s 
a little bit of wind springing up. ’ ’ 

Mr. Crosbie shook his head. 

44 No, thanks, Judy; I must get on. There ” — throw- 


MARGERY DAW. 


21 


ing a shilling upon the small counter — “ take that for your 
kindness. " 

“ Eh, but, Master Stuart, Pd like you for a customer 
every day!” exclaimed the woman; aad with a smile and a 
nod Mr. Crosbie strode away. 

He passed through the narrow street, deserted now — for 
the sound of the children's voices was wafted from the vil- 
lage school — and turned into a wide country-lane that led 
to the left of the cottages. After sauntering a few yards, 
he came in sight of a wood inclosed by a high wall, while 
through the branches of the trees glimpses of a gray-stone 
house were visible. Mr. Crosbie's steps grew slower and 
slower as he approached this wall, and he walked past it in 
a very desultory fashion. Presently he reached a large iron 

f ate through which a wide even drive was seen. Evidently 
Ir. Crosbie had no acquaintance with this drive, for he 
passed on, still down-hill, till he came to a tiny spring trick- 
ling and babbling by the side of the road; and here he 
paused. He was out of the sun's glare now, and felt 
almost cool; to his right hand stretched the path he had 
just traversed, to his left lay two lanes, one leading 
through the distant fields, the other turning abruptly. He 
thought for an instant, then turned in the direction of the 
latter, and just before him stood three cottages at equal dis- 
tances from each other. He passed the first, and with a 
quick nervous hand unlatched the gate of the second, and 
went up the sweet-smelling garden. 

The door was ajar, and as he knocked a faint weak voice 
answered — 

“ Come in. " 

Stuart Crosbie pushed open the door and entered the cot- 
tage. A woman was lying on a sofa, propped up with pil- 
lows the whiteness of which rivaled her face in purity. She 
had a woolen shawl round her shoulders, although the heat 
was so oppressive, and looked very ill. 

Stuart bent over her. 

“ How are you to-day, Mrs. Morris?" he asked gently. 

“ Much about the same, thank you, Mr. Stuart. Were 
you wanting Reuben, sir?” 

“ Yes. I did rather want to see him," replied the young 
man a little hesitatingly. “ I am anxious to hear about 
that poaching affair the other night. " 

“ It weren't nothing at all, sir," Mrs. Morris said, in 


22 


MARGERY DAW. 


her low weak voice. “ Reuben was out nigh most of the 
night, but couldn’t see a soul. ” 

“ Well, I’m glad of it,” observed Mr. Crosbie warmly, 
“ for between ourselves, Mrs. Morris, I confess my sym- 
pathies go entirely with the poachers.” 

Mrs. Morris smiled faintly. 

“ Ah, you ain’t Sir Hubert, sir! He don’t hold them 
views. You would give the whole village welcome to the 
birds; but he’s different.” 

“ Yes, we are rather opposed in some ways,” remarked 
the young squire dryly. “ Is it true, Mrs. Morris, that Sir 
Hubert and Lady Coningham are coming home?” 

“ Yes, sir; Mrs. Brown the housekeeper come to see me 
yesterday, and she says her ladyship is expected next week. 
Ah, I am glad I shall see her again ! I began to fear I 
should die before she came back.” 

“You must cheer up,” said Stuart gently, “and not 
talk about dying. Why are you here all alone? Where is 
Margery?” 

“ She’ve gone out, sir. She would go all the way to 
Farmer Bright’s to fetch me some fresh eggs; our hens are 
bad at laying just now. But she ought to be in directly, 
sir. She started at dinner-time, and it’s now close on three 
o’clock.” 

“ It’s a long walk to Bright’s farm,” observed Mr. 
Crosbie, rising and strolling to the window, and stooping 
apparently to sniff the bowl of flowers standing on the 
ledge, but in reality to have a good look down the hot dusty 
lane. 

“ Ay, it is, sir; but Margery would go. She takes such 
count on me, sir; and it’s her lesson-day and all.” 

“ Is she still studying with the rector’s governess?” 

“ Yes, sir; her ladyship, when she wrote last, desired her 
to continue the lessons, and Miss Lawson speaks main 
well of Margery’s cleverness. I expect. Lady Coningham 
won’t know her when she sees her again.” 

“Ten years would make a difference, Mrs. Morris,” 
Stuart said, looking round with a smile; “ and Margery 
was only about seven when Lady Coningham went to India. 
What a jolly little thing she was too! We had some fun in 
those days.” 

“ Margery is a bit of a tom -boy now,” the Bick woman 
observed, with a loving light in her eyes. 


MARGERY DAW. 


23 


<e Is she? Well, I never see it; she always seems as sedate 
as — well, as the rector's governess herself. But I must be 
off. Tell Reuben I looked in to hear about the poachers, 
and that I don't sympathize with him a bit for spending 
the night in the wood. " He bent and took one of the in- 
valid's thin white hands in his. “ And now don't get low- 
spirited about yourself, Mrs. Morris; you will feel better 
when this heat passes. I shall send you some fruit down 
from the castle. I dare say you can manage a few grapes. " 

“ Many? many thanks, Mr. Stuart, and Heaven bless 
you, sir! You are very good to me." 

Tears rolled down Mrs. Morris's pale face, and the young 
squire turned away with a sudden expression of sorrow. 
At the door he hesitated for a minute, then said hurriedly — 
“ I shall walk a little way along Linton's Lane, Mrs. 
Morris. I want to ask Margery about Bright's crops." 

“ Ay, do, sir," replied the sick woman warmly; “ she 
will be rare glad to see you." 

Mr. Crosbie strode down the path, and let the gate swing 
behind him. He turned to the right, and walked quickly 
along in the glaring heat, with his eyes fixed in an almost 
eager way on the long straight road before him. Away in 
the distance appeared an object — a patch of something 
pink moving very slowly toward him. His pace increased, 
the distance lessened between this object and himself, and 
gradually the pink patch melted into the slender form of a 
girl, her bent head covered with a flapping white sun-bon- 
net, a small basket on her right arm, and a book between 
her two little brown hands. She came on very slowly; ap- 
parently the heat had no effect on her, although the sun 
was beating on her with scorching force. Mr. Crosbie 
slackened his pace as they drew nearer, and at last came to 
a stand-still. The girl was so deeply absorbed in her book 
that she was unaware of his presence till, looking up sud- 
denly, she saw him just in front of her. The book 
dropped, a flush of color mantled her clear transparent face, 
and a look of intense pleasure shone in her great blue eyes. 
“ Mr. Stuart! Oh, how you startled me!" 

“ Hid I, Margery?" returned Stuart, removing his felt 
hat and grasping her hand firmly. “ What are you made 
of? You must be a salamander to live in this heat; yet 
here you are walking along as if it were in Iceland; and 


24 


MARGERY DAW. 


you look as cool as " — hesitating for a simile — “ as a 
cucumber. " 

“ Oh, I don't mind a little sunshine !" said the girl, with 
a slightly contemptuous curl of her short upper lip. “,Iu 
fact, I don't feel it. But where are you going, Mr. Stuart? 
Have you seen mother?" 

“ Yes," replied the young man, turning beside her and 
taking the basket from her arm. “ She told me you had 
gone to Bright's farm, and I am anxious to know how his 
crops are. ' ' * 

“ He is grumbling of course," Margery answered; “ but 
I fancy he is on the whole well satisfied. ' ' 

Their eyes met, and they both burst into a merry fit of 
laughter. 

‘‘You don't care a bit about the crops— you know you 
don't!" remarked Margery severely, as she tried to banish 
the merriment from the corners of her mouth. 

“ Well, strictly between ourselves, I don't. It is a fear- 
ful confession for a farm-owner to make, but it is the 
truth. " 

“ Ah, I am glad you do tell the truth sometimes!" said 
the girl, with a bright glance from her glorious eyes. 

“ You must be a witch or some sort of fairy," Stuart de- 
clared suddenly, “for prevarication, let alone untruths, 
always fails when I meet you." 

He was watching her with intense earnestness, enjoying 
the sweet witchery of her beauty. For she was beautiful; 
her form was so slender and lithe; every limb, from the 
tiny feet in the rough country shoes which could not hide 
their daintiness, to the small delicately shaped hands, 
browned and tanned as they were, spoke of grace and love- 
liness. Her head had a certain imperious carriage that 
made the simple cotton gown appear a queenly robe, and 
the face beneath the flapping sun-bonnet was one to in- 
thrall a sterner man that Stuart Crosbie. The complexion 
of pale cream white which even the sun could not kiss to a 
warmer shade, the sweet rosy mouth, the great wondrous 
eyes fringed with long dark lashes, and the mass of ruddy 
golden curls that twined about the brow and delicate throat 
were but a few of the attractions that Margery possessed. 
One of her greatest charms was the simplicity and unaffect- 
edness of her manner; perhaps it was that as yet none had 
whispered flattery in her shell-like ear, none had tried to 


MARGERY DAW. 


25 


sweep away her girlish frankness and youthfulness by 
adulation and undue admiration. But Margery never 
seemed to think she possessed beauty, nor even that that 
beauty was such as a queen might sigh for. She found 
more pleasure in tossing the hay/ romping with the chil- 
dren, or, in quieter moods, diving into her books, than in 
posing before her mirror; and she was quite unconscious of 
the exact meaning of Stuart Crosbie’s eyes, which filled 
with a fire of admiration and ecstasy whenever they rested 
on her. 

“ Now,” she said lightly, turning her book round and 
round in her hands after they had been conversing for sev- 
eral minutes, “ since I am a fairy, I shall get tills ques- 
tion answered. Why did Mr. Stuart take such a long walk 
in the broiling sun which does affect him if he does not 
care a scrap about Farmer Bright’s crops?” 

“ Why?” echoed the young man. “ Why, to meet you, 
Margery!” 

“ Oh, how kind of you!” she returned quietly; then, 
looking up with a smile, she added, “ Come now — I shall 
begin to doubt my power. What — ” 

“ But that is the real downright honest truth. I told 
Mrs. Morris it was to ask about the crops, but I tell you 
the truth. ” 

“ And why could you not tell mother the truth,” she 
asked quickly — “ why not say you wanted to see me? She 
would have been honored at such a thought. ” 

Stuart Crosbie bit his lip. His brow clouded for a sec- 
ond, then he answered quietly: 

“ Yes, you are quite right, Margery. I ought to have 
said so. Well, never mind — I will next time. And now 
tell me what you have been doing all this age. What is 
that book?” 

“ ‘ The Mill on the Floss ’ 99 — holding it out. 

“ Hum! Looks dry — is it?” 

“ Dry!” exclaimed Margery. “ Oh, it is so beautiful! 
Have you never read it?” 

“ I hardly think so,” confessed the young squire. “ I 
will look it out m the library when I get back, and dig into 
it to-night, when I am smoking.” 

“Miss Lawson doesn’t ‘approve of story-books,” said 
Margery; “ but I am not so strict.” 

“ And how are you getting on?” 


26 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Oh, all right! I am deep in German just now. I 
speak French every day when I go to the rectory. I want 
to be perfect by the time her ladyship comes back. Mother 
has told me all about her kindness to me. I can scarcely 
remember her when she went away, but she must be 
nice. ” 

“ Nice!" exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. 11 She is a brick — a 
million times too good for that old curmudgeon Sir Hu- 
bert!” 

“ No one seems to like him,” Margery remarked thought- 
fully — her face had grown almost sad; “ but mother is 
never tired of telling me all about Lady Coningham — how 
she took me when I was a baby, and my poor dear real 
mother was killed, and put me with mother Morris. I am 
not very old, Mr. Stuart, but I feel I can never repay her 
ladyship all she has done for me. Sometimes I seem to 
have a faint misty recollection of the days when I first 
came here, and I can see a face that was — oh, so pretty and 
kind ! ” 

“ My mother always says Catherine Coningham was very 
beautiful,” Stuart said, as the girl paused. “ I remember 
her as a faded pale woman, very kind, as you say/'’ 

“ There is one thing she did I can never, never forget,” 
Margery went on — “ that was her goodness in burying my 
poor mother in such a pretty spot, and putting that cross 
on her grave. It does me good to go there, Mr. Stuart. I 
almost think my mother knows I go. She must have been 
sweet, she was so beautiful! I always wear my locket, 
you know ” — she put up her hand and produced a tiny 
heart of gold — “ it is such a comfort. I wonder who I 
really am!” 

“ I think you are a princess,” observed the young man 
gravely; “ you look it. ” 

Margery shook her head. 

“ We shall never know, I suppose,” she said sadly, 
“ and I shall always be the nursery rhyme girl ‘ Margery 
Daw/ as Lady Coningham christened me.” 

“ It is the prettiest name in the whole world!” cried 
Stuart warmly. “ And — and it suits you!” 

“ So you would say if you caught sight of me on the 
village see-saw;” and Margery laughed heartily; Then she 
added. “ But we are home; and you have carried my basket 
all the way. It must be nearly four o’clock. ” 


MARGERY DAW. 


27 


“ No!" lie exclaimed incredulously. 4 4 By Jove, I shall 
have to tear — ■” Then he stopped abruptly and asked, 
“ Margery, when are we going to have that picnic we de- 
cided on a month ago?” 

44 Oh, some day!” she answered, going into the garden 
and closing the gate. 

44 But 4 some day * is so vague. Shall we fix it for next 
Wednesday? That is your half-holiday, I know.” 

His eyes were fixed on her face with such earnestness 
that for the first time she seemed to feel their power. She 
colored faintly and held out her hand. 

44 Yes, Wednesday, if you like — if mother is well enough 
to spare me. Good-bye!” 

44 Good-bye!” he answered. 

He gave one last look, and then hurried up the hill. He 
had a good hour’s walk before him, hi3 toilet to make, and 
the drive to Chesterham to accomplish as well. That Lady 
Charteris and her daughter Vane would be received at the 
station by the young squire of Orosbie Castle seemed very 
improbable indeed. 


CHAPTER IV. 

The dressing-gong sounded sonorously through the cor- 
ridor of Crosbie Castle. In one of the many charming 
rooms situated in the towering wing a young girl was stand- 
ing. The open windows overlooked a sweep of verdant 
lawn, majestic groups of. veteran trees, and to the left a 
clump of smaller wood-growth, touched with every tint of 
green. From beneath, the scent of many a flower was 
borne on the air and wafted to her, bringing with its fra- 
grance a sense of purity and delicacy that was utterly want- 
ing to the faint odors that hung round the costly glass bot- 
tles her maid was placing on the toilet- table. 

The mistress of the dainty apartment was leaning against 
the open window deep in thought. She was tall and slight, 
with a face of delicate loveliness and charm, albeit spoiled 
a little by a slight expression of indifference and discon- 
tent. She had hair of the warm brown shade peculiar to 
Englishwomen; her eyes were large, of a clear but rather 
cold blue; her mouth was small and well shaped, disclos- 
ing white even teeth when her lq)s parted. There w r as an 


28 


MARGERY DAW. 


easy graceful nonchalance about her carriage; and, without 
being a strictly beautiful figure. Vane Charteris had an in- 
describable air of hauteur in the slope of her shoulders and 
well-poised head that put to shame many a rival better 
favored by nature. Her eyes were fixed at this instant on 
the figure of a young man walking quickly across the lawn 
to the house, followed by half a dozen dogs. He was by 
no means unpleasant to look upon; and so thought his 
cousin, for she watched him with evident attention and in- 
terest. 

4 4 My squire of Crosbie pleases me/-’ she murmured, 
moving languidly from the window; 44 for once mamma 
has shown discrimination with worldly wisdom.” 

. She seated herself at the glass, and let her maid unpin 
her luxuriant tresses till they fell upon the folds of her 
pink silk wrapper in glorious profusion. Vane Charteris 
had been out two years. Worshiped from her cradle by 
her weak widowed mother, she had entered society’s world 
haughty, indifferent, and selfish. The admiration she re- 
ceived was but a continuation of the adulation that had 
been lavished upon her all through her life; she had no 
aims, no hopes, no ambitions, but was content with her im- 
perious beauty and the power that gift brought. At first 
Vane was a great success — her proud coldness was new, 
and therefore, a delightful experience; but after awhile 
society grew weary of her automatic ways. The season just 
ended had been a lesson to her. She saw herself deserted, 
and her power slip from her; and, as this truth came 
home, she woke suddenly from her dreams, and realized 
that something more was expected of her if she would still 
reign as queen. 

Lady Charteris little guessed the workings of her daugh- 
ter’s mind. She had grown to consider Vane as a priceless 
jewel which must be carefully watched, carefully tended 
and thought for. She judged the girl’s nature to be one pf 
the highest, combining true Charteris pride with utter in- 
dolence. Possibly the mother had felt a touch of vexation 
when she saw girls far below her child in beauty wed nobly 
and well; but she loved Vane as her life, and regret was 
banished in the pleasure of her presence. 

This was the first visit of the beautiful Miss Charteris to 
Crosbie Castle. Hitherto she had contented herself with 
meeting her uncle and aunt in London; but this year the 


MARGERY DAW. 


29 


mood seized her to accept their oft-repeated invitation and 
spend a few weeks in their country home. She had heard 
much of her Cousin Stuart, but had never seen him since 
her childhood, as during the past two years he had been 
traveling, and before that time she never left the seclusion 
of her school-room. 

Sore with the knowledge of her social failure, dissatisfied 
with her mother, herself, and everybody. Vane had sunk 
into a morbid depressed state. She left town without a 
sigh (though, when she contrasted this journey with her 
migration of the former season, she might have given vent 
to one, for instead of hearty farewells and expressions of 
regret, she was neglected, save by her maid and her moth- 
er), and actually felt a thrill of genuine pleasure as she 
bowled through the country lanes and drank in the sweet- 
ness of the air. She stole many hurried glances at her 
cousin during the drive — Mr. Crosbie had reached the sta- 
tion in. the nick of time — and found herself agreeing with 
the oft-repeated praises her mother had sung concerning 
him. There was a manliness, a frankness, an absence of 
self-consciousness and conceit about Stuart Crosbie that 
pleased her jaded spirit; he was as handsome as any of her 
former admirers, while possessing many other advantages 
they did not. She listened quite interestedly to his chatty 
accounts of his travels, and was surprised at the pleasure 
she derived from them. 

“ What will mademoiselle wear?” the maid asked, after 
she had coiled and waved the luxuriant hair round the 
graceful head. 

Vane woke from her musings. 

“ Oh, anything, Marie; it does not matter! No; on sec- 
ond thoughts, give me that plain white silk.” 

“Yes, mademoiselle.” 

Marie went to the inner room, and returned with a mass 
of soft rich clinging drapery on her arm, and assisted her 
mistress to adjust the robe in silence. She was wondering 
a little why mademoiselle should have chosen so simple a 
gown — it was not her usual habit. But, when the last 
touch was given, and Vane stood gazing at her reflection 
in the mirror, the maid was fain to confess the choice was 
good. The tall supple form looked inexpressibly graceful 
in the long soft folds, the delicate masses of lace brought 
fichu-like across the bust gave a touch of quaintness to the 


30 


MARGERY DAW. 


whole, and the purity of the silk gave a softened, fresher 
look to the pretty face, for once free from its discontent. 
Vane looked long at herself, then turned to her maid: 

“ My gloves and fan, Marie. Thanks. Do not trouble 
to wait for me to-night. Leave my wrapper here; I will 
brush my hair myself. I dare say you are tired. " 

“Merci lien, mademoiselle,” Marie murmured, marvel- 
ing still more. She was unaccustomed to any notice, to 
say naught of kindly words from her young mistress. 

Vane drew on her long white gloves, then went slowly 
through the corridor and down the stairs. The sun was 
declining, the heat of the day dying, and a faint delicious 
breeze came in through the many open windows. Miss 
Charteris passed through the great hall, the tap-tap of her 
heels sounding distinctly on the tesselated floor, and stood 
for one instant at a door that led first under a colonnade 
and thence to the grounds which her windows overlooked. 
While she was standing here her cousin sauntered into 
view; and, moving forward with languid grace, she went 
to meet him. 

“ La dame llanche,” he said, tossing away an unfinished 
cigarette. “ You startled me, Cousin Vane — you crept 
out so quietly and look so like a spirit. " 

“ I am quite real, I assure you/' Vane answered. “ But 
why have you thrown away your cigarette?" 

Stuart laughed as he answered: 

“ It is against my mother's rules to smoke immediately 
before dinner, but I love my weed, and am scarcely con- 
scious when lam smoking or not. Please forgive me. I 
have been a savage for so long, I have forgotten my good 
manners. " 

“ Ah, I want to hear all about your travels and advent- 
ures!" said Miss Charteris. “ Have we time to stroll up 
and down for awhile before dinner?" 

“ But you will be tired," remonstrated Stuart, mindful 
of his mother's injunctions; “and" — glancing at the 
small dainty white feet — “ I am afraid you will ruin your 
pretty shoes!" 

“ I am not afraid of either calamity," Vane responded, 
with a smile; “ however, let us split the difference and go 
to the conservatory. " 

Stuart agreed willingly. He was most favorably im- 
pressed by his new cousin. She was no hypochondriacal 


MARGERY DAW. 


31 


creature, but a young beautiful girl, and likely to prove a 
most agreeable companion. He glanced at her dress as 
thSy sauntered slowly along the colonnade to the conserva- 
tory, mentally declaring it to be most charming and sim- 
ple, deciding it to be most probably the work of her own 
hands, and would have been thunderstruck had any one 
informed him that the innocent-looking garment had cost 
nearly fifty pounds. 

Vane Charteris saw her cousin's admiration, and her 
heart thrilled. Once more she would taste the joy of power, 
she would no longer be neglected. A vision of future tri- 
umph filled her mind at that instant. She would wake 
from her indifference. The world should see her again 
as queen, reigning this time by charm and fascination as 
well as by her beauty. The color mounted to her cheeks, 
the light flashed in her eyes, at the thought, and she turned 
with animation and interest to converse with the man be- 
side her. 

“ You have a beautiful home, Stuart," she observed, 
after they had walked through the heavily scented conserv- 
atory to the drawing-room. “ I am glad I have come." 

“ And I am heartily glad to welcome you. I have heard 
so much of my Cousin Vane, such stories of triumphs and 
wonders that I began to despair of ever receiving her here . 99 

“You forget," said Vane, softly, waving her great 
feather-fan to and fro — “ there is an attraction here now 
that at other times was wanting . 99 

She spoke lightly, almost laughingly, but her words 
pleased the man's vanity. 

“ Can it be that I am that attraction?" he asked, quick- 
ly. Then he added, “ Cousin Vane, I am indeed honored." 

“ You jump to hasty conclusions," she retorted, “ but I 
will pardon your excessive vanity, if you will give me a 
spray of stephanotis for my dress." 

“ Is ijb your favorite flower?" he asked, leading the way 
back to the conservatory. 

“I love all flowers, " Vane answered — “ that is," she 
added, carelessly, “ all hot-house flowers. " 

“You shall be well supplied in future. " 

“ Thanks." 

She drew off her gloves and pinned the spray of wax-like 
flowers amid her laces. Her hands were white and delicate, 
yet Stuart's mind unconsciously flew to two little brown 


32 


MARGERY DAW. 


ones he had seen that afternoon grasping a plainly bound 
book. There was even more beauty in them than in^his 
cousin's, he thought. 

“ I shall look to you, Cousin Stuart," Miss Charteris 
observed, as she fastened her gloves again, “ to initiate me 
into the mysteries of country life. I intend to dabble in 
farmings milk the cow, toss the hay, picnic in the fields, 
and get quite burned and brown . 9 9 

Stuart laughed a little constrainedly. He was thinking 
of his picnic for next Wednesday, and wondering whether 
he could induce his cousin to be kind to Margery. His 
mother, for some unaccountable reason, did not appear to 
like the girl. 

“ We must get a native of Hurstley to act as cicerone," 
he responded, breaking off a leaf from sheer wantonness. 
“ I have been away so long, I have almost forgotten my 
home." 

“ What are you going to do, now you are back?" 

“ Nothing — that is, nothing definite. You see, my fa- 
ther is very shaky, and I must relieve him of some of his 
duties. My mother has a strong wish that I should stand 
for Chesterliam. " 

“ A parliamentary career?" questioned Vane. “ How 
would you like that?" 

“ Not at all," Stuart answered, frankly. ee Legislation 
is not my forte. I am, if anything, a sportsman. " 

“ English to the backbone! Cousin Stuart, I am dis- 
posed to like you . 99 

“ Is that true?" Stuart asked, gravely. 

Vane turned and met his gaze, then laughed softly. 

“ True? Of course it is; are we not cousins? The lik- 
ing, however, must not be altogether on my side." 

“ Have no fear," the young man began, but at that in- 
stant the dinner-gong sounded, and his sentence remained 
unfinished. 

Vane was led in by her cousin, and they were even yet 
more amicable during the meal, to Mrs. Crosbie's intense 
satisfaction. She made no effort to interrupt the merry 
conversation of the young people, and contented herself 
with now and then joining in the flow of reminiscences in 
which her husband and Lady Charteris were indulging. 

Squire Crosbie was a tall thin man with a worn, almost 
haggard face. Its prevailing expression was kindly but 


MARGERY DAW. 


33 


weak, and lie turned instinctively to his wife for moral 
support and assistance. Stuart dearly loved his father. 
The gentle student disposition certainly was not in har- 
mony with his own nature; but he had never received aught 
but tenderness and love from his father, and grew to think 
of him as a feeble plant that required warmth and affec- 
tion to nourish it. His feeling for his mother was entirely 
different. He inherited his strong spirit from her, the 
blood of an old sporting family flowed in her veins. She 
was a powerful domineering woman, and Stuart had been 
taught to give her obedience rather than love. Had he 
been permitted to remain always with his mother, his nat- 
ure, although in the abstract as strong as hers, might by 
• force of habit have become weakened and altered; but, as 
.soon as he had attained his majority, he had expressed a 
determination to travel, and in this was seconded for once 
most doggedly by his father. Those two years abroad did 
him an infinite amount of good; but to Mrs. Crosbie they 
did not bring unalloyed delight. Her son had gone from 
her a child obedient to her will, he returned a man and 
submissive only to his own. 

Lady Charteris resembled her brother the squire; but 
the intellectual light that gleamed in his eyes was altogether 
wanting in hers. Her mind was evidently fixed on her 
child, for even in the thick of a conversation her gaze would 
wander to Vane and rest on her. She was heartily pleased 
now at her daughter's brightness, and whispered many 
hopes to Mrs. Crosbie that this visit might benefit the deli- 
cate nerves and health. 

Mrs. Crosbie nodded absently to these remarks. She 
was occupied with her own thoughts. Stuart must marry; 
and whom could he find better, search where he might, 
than Vane Charteris for his wife? Beautiful, proud, a 
woman who had reigned as a social queen — in every way 
she was fitted to become the mistress of Crosbie Castle. 
She watched her son eagerly, she saw the interest and ad- 
miration in his face, and her heart grew glad. Of all 
things Mrs. Crosbie had dreaded during those two years' 
absence, the fear of an attraction or entanglement had 
been most frequent, and not until she saw him so wrapped 
up in his cousin Vane did she realize indeed that her fears 
had been groundless. 

2 


34 


MARGERY DAW. 


CHAPTER V. 

i 1 Get on your bonnet, child, and trot away! I shall be 
content till you come back.” 

“ Mother, I don't like to leave you to-day, you seem so 
weak. Miss Lawson will not mind — let me stay with you. ” 

Mrs. Morris put out her weak hand and caressed the soft 
silky hair. 

“ No, no, child,” she persisted, gently. “ You must go. 
to yer lessons. Reuben will be 'ome directly; he'll make 
me a cup of tea; don't you worrit yourself. It's yer day 
of German, too, and I want you to be well got on by the 
time her ladyship comes home. ” 

Margery rose slowly from her knees. 

“ Well, I will go," she said, regretfully; “but let me 
make you comfortable. There is your book — why, you are 
gettingon quite fast, mother! — and here are the grapes Mr. 
Stuart sent, close to your hand. '' 

“ Heaven bless him for a kind true-hearted gentleman! 
Ah, there are few like him, Margery, my lass!” 

“He is good, indeed,” replied the girl, a soft spot of 
color appearing in her cheeks. “ Now, I will go; but first 
of all I will run into Mrs. Carter's and ask her to come 
and sit with you. ” 

She bent and kissed the transparent cheek, tied on her 
sun-bonnet, took up her books, and, with a parting smile, 
went out of the door-way. 

Her message delivered at Mrs. Carter's cottage, Margery 
went slowly up the hill, past the wall inclosing the wood, 
on past the gate leading to the Weald, Sir Hubert Coning- 
ham's country-house, on and on, till she reached the vil- 
lage. The rectory stood a little way beyond the school- 
house, close to the church, and, by the time she reached 
the side-gate, Margery had learned her lesson by heart. 
The heat was quite as great as it was on the afternoon she 
walked to Fanner Bright's, now four days ago; and she 
looked round anxiously at the sky, dreading a cloud until 
Wednesday was gone and the picnic with Mr. Stuart a thing 
of the past. 

Somehow Margery found her lesson not so delightful to- 


MARGERY DAW. 


35 


day; her attention would wander, and Miss Lawson had to 
repeat a question three times in one of these moments be- 
fore she got a response. The governess put down the 
girl’s absence of mind and general listless manner to the 
heat, and very kindly brought the lesson early to a close 
and dismissed her pupil. 

Margery for the first time gave vent to a sigh of relief 
when she received permission to go home, and she sauntered 
through the village almost wearily. She was gazing on 
the ground, ignorant of what was going on about her, when 
the sound of ponies’ feet and the noise of wheels behind her 
caused her to turn, and, looking up, she .saw Mrs. Crosbie, 
seated in her small carriage, close at hand. 

4 4 Good-afternoon, Margery,’ ’ Mrs. Crosbie said, in her 
haughty cold manner. 44 I am glad to have met you. 
How is your mother?” 

44 Good-afternoon, madame,” replied the girl, calling 
Mrs. Crosbie by the name the village always used, and 
bending her head gracefully. 44 Thank you very much, 
but I am afraid mother is very bad to-day; I did not want 
to leave her, but she insisted. She grows very weak.” 

44 Has Doctor Metcalf seen her to-day?” 

44 Yes, madame, but he said nothing to me — he looked 
very grave. ” 

44 1 was going to send her down some beef -tea and jelly, 
but as I have met you, it will save the servant a journey. 
Get in beside Thomas; I will drive you to the castle, and 
you can take the things to your mother. ” 

Mrs. Crosbie pointed to a seat beside the groom. She 
was for some reason always annoyed when she came in con- 
tact with this girl. In the first place, Margery spoke and 
moved as her equal; she never dropped the customary court- 
esy, nor appeared to grasp for an instant the magnitude of 
the castle dignity. Mrs. Crosbie was wont to declare that 
the girl was being ruined; that Catherine 'Coningham had 
behaved like an idiot; that, because the child had worn 
delicate clothes and the dead woman had seemed in every 
way a lady, Margery should be brought up and educated 
as such was preposterous. It was all absurd, Mrs. Crosbie 
affirmed, a mere shadow of romance. The letter in the 
mother’s pocket had plainly stated her position — she was a 
maid, and nothing else, and all speculation as to an honor- 
able connection was ridiculous and far-fetched. Mrs. Cros- 


36 


MARGERY DAW. 


bie did not quarrel with Lady Coningham for rescuing the 
baby from the work-house — charity she upheld in every 
way — but she maintained that Margery should have been 
placed with Mrs. Morris as her child, and that she should 
have learned her ABC with the other village children in 
the village school, and that the story of the railway acci- 
dent and her mother's death should have been carefully 
withheld from the child. Now the girl's head was full of 
nothing but herself. The mistress of Crosbie Castle opined 
that she was fit for no situation, and consequently would 
come to no good. 

Margery was ignorant of all this; but she was never en- 
tirely comfortable in Mrs. Crosbie's presence. The waif 
had. within her the germ of pride every whit as great and 
strong as that possessed by Stuart's mother. Hitherto she 
had had no reason to intrench herself in this natural for- 
tress, for all the village loved her; the simple-minded folk 
looked upon her as a being above them; the very fact that 
Lady Coningham had adopted and educated her raised 
Margery in their eyes. So the girl had received kindness, 
in many cases respect; and she was as happy as the lark, 
save when a wave of mournful thought brought back the 
memory of her mother. 

Mrs. Crosbie wronged her. Margery had not a spice of 
arrogance in her composition — she had only the innate' 
feeling that she was not of the village class, and, with the 
true delicacy and instinct of a lady, forbore even to express 
this. 

There was plenty of room on the front seat, but Mrs. 
Crosbie would not have dreamed of bidding the girl to sit 
there — she relegated her to what she considered her proper 
place — among the servants. Margery's face flushed a little. 

“If you will allow me," she said, with her natural 
grace, “ I will walk up to the castle, thank you very 
much. " 

“Do as I tell you," commanded Mrs. Crosbie, quietly. 
“ Thomas, make room for Margery Daw." 

Margery bit her lip and hesitated for a moment, then 
the memory of the poor sick woman at home came to her. 
If she offended madame mother would have no more deli- 
cacies, so, without another word, she stepped in and was 
driven briskly out of the village. She sat very quiet beside 
the shy groom, and, opening her book, a collection of 


MARGERY DAW. 37 

short German stories, soon lost her vexation in their de- 
lights. 

Mrs. Crosbie was unduly pleased with herself for bring- 
ing this girl to her level, and she was determined to lose no 
opportunity of continuing it in the future. As they stopped 
at the lodge-gates she turned to Margery: 

4 4 Get down and go along that path to the back part of 
the house, and wait in the kitchen till I send for you. '' 

Margery obediently descended, and turned down the side- 
path as the ponies started otf along the sweeping avenue to 
the castle entrance. Why was madame so stern and Mr. 
Stuart so kind? Margery pondered as she walked on. 
Had she done anything wrong? Her mind accused her of 
no fault; she could therefore arrive at no solution of the 
mystery. 

The path she was following was one used by the gar- 
deners, and she soon arrived at a small gate which, on 
opening, led her to the paddock anil kitchen-gardens. 
Margery toiled through the heat up to the court-yard, and, 
after crossing this, entered a large door standing wide 
open. 

The cook and her handmaidens were indulging in five- 
o'clock tea, and the mistress of the kitchen rose with genial 
hospitality to press her visitor to partake of some too. 

44 Now do!” she urged, as Margery shook her head. 
44 You look fair fagged out.” 

44 No, thank you, Mrs. Drew,” Margery said simply; 
unconsciously she recoiled from accepting anything that 
came from Mrs. Crosbie. 44 1 am not really tired. Ma- 
dame has driven me here from the village. I am to take 
some things back to mother. If you don't mind, I will 
wait outside — it is rather hot in here.” 

44 Ay, do, child,” the cook answered; and she handed 
out a large stool. 44 Put this just in the door- way, and 
you'll catch a little draught. '' 

With a smile Margery took the stool, and, placing it in 
a shady corner, sat down and began to read. The court- 
yard stretched along a quadrangle leading to the stables, 
and, looking up now and then from her book, Margery 
caught glimpses of the castle horses lazily switching their 
tails in their comfortable boxes. The pony-carriage was 
driven in while she waited, and she watched with much 
interest the small sturdy ponies being unharnessed and led 


38 


MARGERY DAW. 


away. It was a quaint, picturesque spot — the low-roofed 
stables, the larger coach-house, a portion of the gray-stone 
castle jutting out in the distance, with a background of 
branches and faintly moving leaves. Margery shut her 
book and let her eyes wander to the clear blue sky seen in 
patches through the trees. She felt cool in her little nook, 
and enjoyed the rest. The groom had discarded his smart 
livery, and, in company with another lad, was busily em- 
ployed in cleaning the pony-carriage, the hissing sound 
with which he accompanied his movements not sounding 
unmusical from a distance; and Margery found herself 
smiling at his exertions and the confidence that had suc- 
ceeded his bashfulness. Suddenly, while she was watch- 
ing them, she saw the groom and his companion draw 
themselves up and salute some one; and then the next mo- 
ment a figure came round the corner — a figure in white 
tennis-costume, with a white silk shirt and large flapping 
hat. Margery felt lier cheeks grow warm, than they as 
quickly cooled. Another figure stood beside the tall one 
of the man, a dainty, delicate, lovely form in a dress of 
ethereal blue, holding a large sunshade of the same color 
above her beautiful head. 

Unconsciously Margery felt her heart sink. Never had 
she seen so fair a vision before; and the sight of those two 
figures, so well matched and so close together, brought a 
strange vague pain to her, the nature of which she could 
not guess. She dropped her eyes to her book again, and 
shrunk back into her corner, hoping to escape notice. She 
was too far away to hear what was said, and she began to 
breathe freely again after a few minutes, when the faint 
sound of a musical laugh was borne on the air and the 
tones of a deep clear voice she knew well came nearer and 
nearer. She pulled her sun-bonnet well over her eyes and 
bent still lower over her book as the voices drew closer. 

“ If you are ill after this, Cousin Vane,” she heard 
Stuart say, “ I shall never forgive myself. The heat is 
terrific, you know. Are you quite sure you can manage 
it?” 


“ Quite,” answered the woman’s voice. 44 1 want to 
see this poor doggie; besides, you tell me it is just as far 
back again as round this way. ” 

“ Just as far. Well, here we are! Poor Sir Charles, I 
hope the old fellow is better.” 


MARGERY DAW. 


30 


The two figures came into sight; they were about six 
yards from Margery, and were walking slowly. She could 
see the delicate blue drapery, the slender gauntleted hand, 
though she did not raise her eyes; and she drew back into 
her corner with a nervous dread such as she had never 
felt hitherto. 

Mr. Crosbie led his cousin to a small outhouse immedi- 
ately facing the kitchen door, and was about to open the 
door, when, looking round, he saw Margery. His face 
flushed for an instant; then, before his cousin could per- 
ceive it, his embarrassment was gone. 

“ There, Vane,” he said easily, opening the door and 
pointing to a large colly lying on a heap of clean straw. 
“ Don't be afraid; he won't hurt you. Poor Sir Charles 
— poor old fellow!'' He stooped and took up a bandaged 
paw. {i I shall have you about in a day or two. He wants 
some fresh water. Margery ” — he left his cousin's side a 
little, and looked straight at the girl sitting up in the cor- 
ner — “ Margery, will you kindly ask one of the maids to 
bring me some water for Sir Charles?'' 

Margery put down her book without a work, went in- 
doors, brought a jug, then walked to the well a little to 
the left, and, having filled the jug, approached him. 

“ Thank you. Why did you trouble, Margery?” said 
Stuart courteously. “ How is your mother to-day?” 

“ She is no better, Mr. Stuart, thank you,” returned 
Margery, in her clear refined voice. “ I am waiting for 
some things madame is kindly going to send her. " 

Vane Charteris had turned at the first sound of the girl's 
voice, and she was almost alarmed at the beauty of the 
face before her. Beside the golden glory of that hair, the 
depths of pathetic splendor in those eyes, the pale trans- 
parency of that skin, her own prettiness simply faded 
away. She noted the grace and ease with which Margery 
moved, and immediately conceived a violent dislike to this 
village girl. 

“ Vane, let me present to you one of my old playfellows 
— Margery Daw. You were wanting some one to point 
out all the beauties of Hurstley. I am sure no one could 
do that half so well as Margery." 

Miss Charteris bent her head and smiled at her cousin. 

“ Many thanks, Stuart; but you forget we have planned 
to discover the mysteries of the country together without 


40 


MARGERY DAW. 


any assistance — a spice of adventure is always charm- 
ing. ” 

Margery turned away, with a bow to Stuart — she did not 
speak, or look at his companion — and she overheard Miss 
Cliarteris say, with a scornful laugh, as she walked back 
to her seat: 

“Dear Cousin Stuart, you should be more merciful; 
that girl’s hair is so painfully red, it makes me quite un- 
comfortable in this heat.” 

Margery did not hear the reply — her lips were quivering 
and her hands trembling with mortification — and, when 
she looked up again, the housekeeper was handing her a 
basket, and the cousins were gone. 

“ Madame sends your mother some beef-tea, a bottle of 
brandy, and some fruit and jelly,” said the housekeeper, 
closing the basket-lid. “ It is rather heavy; and mind 
you carry it carefully. Can you manage it?” * 

“Yes,” said Margery, steadily. “Thank you; I am 
much obliged.” 

She turned with her heavy load and walked across the 
court-yard, her heart no lighter than her basket. 

That lovely looking stranger had made fun of her — fun 
— and to Mr. Stuart! Perhaps he had laughed too. The 
thought was too painful. And was she not a sight? Look 
at her old pink gown, well washed and mended, her 
clumsy boots, her sunburned hands. The memory of that 
dainty figure looking like a fairy in her delicate garments 
rose to her mind, and her head drooped. Yes, she was a 
common village girl — madame treated her as such; and 
now Mr. Stuart would turn too. Oh, why could she not 
tear aside the veil of mystery and know what she really 
was? Could that face treasured in her locket be only 
the face of a maid, or did her heart speak truly when it 
called that mother mad ame’s equal? 

Margery was pained and troubled as she took her way 
along the paddock — pained not so much at the woman’s 
words as at the thought that the man had re-echoed them 
and deemed her stupid and plain. She had grown to look 
on Stuart Crosbie as something bright and delightful in 
her lifQ. They had played together as children, and the 
memory of that friendship was the strongest link in the 
chain that held him as her hero. When he was away, 
Stuart had written once or twice to Margery, sending her 


MARGERY DAW. 


41 


views of the places he visited, and giving her long chatty 
accounts of his travels. When he came home, they renewed 
their intimacy; there was not a shadow of surprise or fear 
in Margery's mind when the young squire came so frequent- 
ly to see her. 

She had no suspicion that this friendship would annoy 
his mother or was in any way strange or uncommon. She 
liked Stuart Crosbie; she could talk to him of her studies, 
her pursuits — a sealed book in her home — and gradually 
grew to welcome him as a companion with whom she could 
converse easily and naturally and as a friend who would 
never fail her. Mrs. Morris was too great an invalid to 
devote much thought to the girl's amusements, nor would 
she have been greatly troubled had she known how inti- 
mate the young squire and Margery had become; so the girl 
had had no constraint put upon her; she met, walked and 
chatted with Stuart Crosbie as freely as she liked, and no 
cloud had dawned on her happy life till to-day. 

The sight of that other girl, so different from herself, 
had brought a strange sharp pang, but that was lost in the 
pain she endured when she thought that Stuart had agreed 
with the cruel remark, and that his friendship was gone 
forever. She wended her way along the paddock, and was 
turning through the gate to enter the gardeners' path 
again, when a hand was stretched out from beside her, 
took the basket from her, and, putting a finger under her 
chin, raised her head from its drooping position. 

“ Well?" said Stuart quietly. 

“Give me my basket, please, Mr. Stuart," Margery 
murmured hurriedly, a crimson wave of color dyeing her 
cheeks. 

“ What for?" asked the young man calmly. 

“ I must get home. I am very late as it is." 

“ Well, why don't you go?" Stuart inquired, watching 
the color fade from her cheeks. 

“ I can not go without my basket," Margery answered, 
trying to be at her ease. “ Please give it to me, Mr. 
Stuart. " 

“ No," he answered briefly. 

“ Then I must go without it!" she exclaimed; and, suit- 
ing the action to the word, she began to move down the 
path. 


42 


MARGERY DAW. 


Stuart followed at once, and put a detaining hand on 
her arm. 

“ Here is your basket, Margery. I was only teasing 
you. What a time you have been! I have been waiting 
here for you for the last five minutes. " 

Margery's heart grew lighter again. 

“ You might have been better employed," she returned, 
with the quaint sharpness Stuart always admired. “ But, 
if you have time to waste, I have not. Listen ! There — 
it is striking six, and mother will wonder what has become 
of me!" 

“Yes, that is six," observed Mr. Crosbie, listening to 
the clock chiming from the castle. “ You will get home 
by seven, Margery, if you start at once. Not that way!" 
— as she turned again down the path. “ This is nearly 
half a mile nearer." He pushed open the gate and mo- 
tioned her into the paddock again. “ Now," he continued, 
slinging the basket on his arm and turning beside her 
across the field, “ why are you cross with me. Miss Mar- 
gery?" 

“I am not cross with you," Margery answered hur- 
riedly. 

“ Not now, perhaps; but you were." 

Margery was silent. 

. “ What was it, Margery?" he asked gently. 

“ I heard what that lady said about me just now," she 
replied, after a pause; “ and — and — " 

“You are angry with me. That is hardly fair — rough 
on an old friend, you know." 

“ I thought you might have — " She stopped. 

“ Agreed with her. You ought to know me better than 
that, Margery." 

The grave tones went to her heart. 

“ Oh, forgive me!" she cried. “ It was wrong; but — 
she is so beautiful, and I — " 

“ You are — " 

“ Only a village girl beside her." 

“ I wonder if you know how different you are from 
her?" Stuart said quietly. 

Margery's face flushed. 

“ I never felt I was — common till to-day," she answered. 

“Margery!" 


MARGERY DAW. 43 

She looked up quickly. Mr. Crosbie checked his words 
and laughed a little constrainedly. 

“ You must not grow vain/* he said. 

“ Am I vain? I will remember another time/* she re- 
sponded gravely. 

“ And remember this too ,” Stuart added — “ that, what- 
ever any one may say, my opinion of you does not change 
— never wilL” 

She smiled with delight. 

“Thank you, Mr. Stuart,” she said simply. “And 
now please give me my basket; you must not come anv 
further. ” 

“ I shall carry it home for you,” he answered. “We 
shall not be long, and this is tons too heavy for your little 
hands. Tell me of your lesson. What have you done to- 
day, and what is that book?” 

Margery immediately broke into a long account of her 
studies, and with her happy serenity restored, she walked 
on beside him, heedless of the dust or the sun — content 
that their friendship was unaffected. 

Stuart Crosbie listened with pleasure to the ripple of her 
voice, his eyes never tired of wandering to her sweet face, 
lovely in its innocence; but, when he had parted from her 
and strode home along the lanes, his brow was clouded 
and a puzzled expression rested upon his face. 


CHAPTER VI. 

Wednesday morning broke clear and cloudless. Mar- 
gery rose at an early hour, and sat looking out of her little 
window at the sun gilding the fields and trees with its glory. 
Stuart Crosbie too rose earlier than was his wont; and he 
occupied the time till the breakfast-gong sounded in walk- 
ing up and down his room, apparently in deep thought. 
As the muffled summons reached his ear, he uttered an 
impatient “ Pshaw!” and made his way slowly down the 
stairs. His mother was seated at the table when he en- 
tered the room; and he had scarcely exchanged greetings 
with her when Vane Charteris made her appearance. It 
was not Miss Charteris's usual custom to honor the break- 
fast-table with her presence; but since her stay at Crosbie, 


44 


MARGERY DAW. 


the mood had seized her, and she descended regularly to 
the early meal. 

“ Good-morning, my dear/' said Mrs. Crosbie, smiling 
her sweetest. “ You look as fresh as a rose; doesn't she, 
Stuart?" 

“ Words always fail me to describe Cousin Vane's 
beauty," was his gallant reply. 

Vane smiled languidly; but she was not quite happy. 
There was something strange about this cousin of hers; he 
was attentive, but his attentions seemed to. be the outcome 
of habit rather than inclination. Was her power to fail 
her here too? 

“ What is the programme for to-day?" she asked, as 
she drew her chair to the table. 

“ We must devise something," observed Mrs. Crosbie. 
“ Ah, Vane, mv dear, I fear you find this place very 
dull!" 

“Dull!" repeated Miss Charteris. “I can not tell 
you, my dear aunt, how happy I am in your lovely home. ' ' 

Mrs. Crosbie felt her heart swell; more and more she saw 
the advisability of a marriage between Stuart and his cous- 
in, more and more she determined it should take place. 

“ Well, Stuart, what are we to do to amuse Vane?" she 
inquired, turning to her son, with the pleasure called up 
by her niece's speech still lingering on her face. 

“ I am afraid, mother, I shall not be able to offer my 
services to-day. I am bound for Chesterham this morn- 
ing," Stuart answered, vigorously attacking a pie on a 
side-table. 

“ Chesterham !"’ ejaculated his mother. “Why, what 
takes you there, Stuart?" 

“ An appointment with Derwent. He has written and 
asked me to meet him at the junction on his way to town; 
he wants to see me. " 

“ Why could not Captain Derwent come here for a few 
days?" inquired Mrs. Crosbie coldly. She was annoyed 
that anything should interrupt the acquaintance that was 
progressing so satisfactorily. 

“ He can't; he is due in London." 

“ But must you go?" began his mother, when Vane in- 
terrupted with — 

“ Oh, please don't stop him, auntie dear, or he will vote 
me such a nuisance! Indeed, we can spare Stuart for one 


MARGERY DAW. 


45 


day, and I will enjoy myself with you if you will let me. 
We have not driven to any places y^ei ; shall we not go 
somewhere to-day?” 

“ I shall be pleased,” Mrs. Crosbie replied, though she 
looked vexed; and all other remarks on the subject were 
stopped, to Stuart's great relief, by his father's appearance 
— Lady Charteris never left her room till noon. 

The squire came in with his curious halting gait; he car- 
ried a bundle of letters and papers in his hand, and his 
haggard features wore a look of surprise. 

“ Good-morning, my dear,” he said to Vane. “ Con- 
stance "—to his wife — “ I have received a most extraordi- 
nary surprise. Read that '' — holding out a letter. 

With ill-concealed impatience Mrs. Crosbie took the let- 
ter he held toward her. 

“ What sort of a surprise, dad?'' asked Stuart, quitting 
his hand for an distant into his father's. 

“ Your mother will tell you,” answered the squire. 

“ From Douglas Gerant!” exclaimed Mrs. Crosbie, gaz- 
ing at the end of the letter. “ This is a surprise indeed! 
Why, Sholto, he is in England — has been for the last 
month — and wants to come to us for a visit!” 

“ By Jove!” was Stuart's only utterance. 

<tf It seemed like a letter from the dead,” said the squire 
dreamily. <c What years since one has heard or seen any- 
thing of Douglas Gerant! It must be fifteen at least since 
he left England.” 

Mrs. Crosbie folded up the letter. 

“ He is not changed,” she observed — ee at least his letter 
is as strange and erratic as of old. Vane, you have heard 
your* mother speak of Douglas Gerant, have you not?” 

Miss Charteris puckered her brow. 

“ I don't remember his name," she replied. “ Who is 
he?” 

({ Your mother's cousin — surely she must have spoken 
of him!” 

“ I have heard of Eustace Gerant,” Miss Charteris an- 
swered; “ but he is dead.” 

“ This is his brother. He too might have been dead for 
all that we have seen or heard of him. He was a ne'er-do- 
wee'l, an utter scamp. ” 

“ But with great good in him, ” added the squire warmly. 


46 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ I know you did not think so, Constance; but- Douglas 
always had a fine generous nature. ” 

“ It was well hidden then,” his wife retorted coldly. “ I 
never had much sympathy with him, and I have less now. 
A man has no right to be lost to the world as he has been, 
and leave a magnificent inheritance wasting and neglected 
when there are others who would prize it.” 

“ Is this the long-lost cousin who owns Beecham Park?” 
asked Vane, with sudden interest. “ Oh, then I have 
heard of him, of course!” 

“ He came into the property ten years ago,” Stuart ex- 
plained, “ and he has not come home till now. I must 
confess I always had a strong sympathy for this unknown 
cousin. What a strange life his has been! I am tempted 
to envy him the wonders he must have seen. ” 

“I am surprised you should speak like that, Stuart,” 
said his mother coldly. “ I can not understand any man 
of principle putting aside his duties for his inclinations.” 

Miss Charteris looked bored. 

“ Is he married?” she asked languidly. 

“ No, no, my dear,” answered Mrs. Crosbie quickly; 
“ by some marvelous chance he has escaped^ matrimony. I 
always expected to hear of a low-born wife; but he appears 
to have a little of the Gerant pride within him, and has 
spared us that humiliation.” 

“ Then he has no heir?” Vane observed. 

Mrs. Crosbie did not reply immediately; but Miss Char- 
teris saw her handsome eyes wander to Stuart’s face and 
rest there. 

“He has the power of willing Beecham Park,” Mrs. 
Crosbie remarked: and the squire broke in with hi$ quiet 
monotonous voice — 

“ I have often wished Douglas had married; he was just 
the man to be led to good things by a good woman. ” 

“ You always were absurd on this subject, Sholto,” his 
wife remarked quietly; and the squire discreetly said no 
more. 

Stuart moved from the table as the meal ended, and en- 
grossed with the newspaper, was lost to all that was passing 
around. 

“ I will write this morning and bid Douglas welcome,” 
Mrs. Crosbie said after awhile. As she rose, she turned to 
the butler — “Fox, tell Mrs. Marxham to prepare some 


MARGERY DAW. 


47 


rooms for Sir Douglas Gerant; I expect he will arrive to- 
morrow. Now, Vane, I will leave you for half an hour; 
then, if you will equip yourself, we will drive this morning. '' 

“ Thanks, auntie;” and Miss Oharteris walked slowly 
across the room to one of the long French windows, look- 
ing thoughtful and not altogether displeased. 

“ The power to will Beecham Park,” she mused; £< and 
the heir must be Stuart Crosbie. His mother's eyes spoke 
that plainly.” 

Miss Oharteris glanced at the tall well-built form of 
Stuart, who was still intent on the newspaper, and for the 
first time the thought of a warmer feeling dawned in her 
heart. She found this cousin a more agreeable companion 
than she had imagined; she was irresistibly attracted by 
his manliness and charm of manner. Might she not gratify 
her . ambition as well as her fancy if she chose this young 
man for her husband? As mistress of Crosbie Castle she 
would once again reign in her world, but as mistress of 
Crosbie Castle and Beecham Park her sovereignty would 
be greater than she had even dreamed of. Vane felt her 
heart swell within her at the glorious prospect her imagina- 
tion conjured up; and, standing in the soft morning sun- 
light, she vowed to link her lot with Stuart Crosbie, and be 
his wife. 

She left the window and walked toward him. 

“ You are most unkind, Mr. Crosbie,” she said, looking 
sweetly plaintive. “ You are going to leave me all day, 
and you bury yourself now in those dry papers.” 

Stuart put down the newspaper quickly; he had been 
utterly unconscious of her presence. 

“ I beg your pardon, Vane,” he said, smiling; “ indeed 
it was very rude of me . 93 

“ I forgive you this time,” she returned, extending her 
white hand, ‘ ‘ on condition that you promise to come home 
early from your meeting with this tiresome man.” 

Stuart colored faintly; It was true that he had received 
a letter from his friend Captain Derwent, also true that 
that friend would pass through Chesterham at some time 
during the day; but Stuart's appointment was not with 
Captain Derwent. In an hour's time he was to meet Mar- 
gery, and start for their picnic in the woods. 

“ I shall get back as soon as I can,'' he said hurriedly. 
“ In truth, Vane, I am afraid that you find Crosbie hor- 


48 


MARGERY DAW. 


ribly dull; there is nothing or no one to amuse you. It 
will be better in a day or two, for I intend to invite one or 
two people for the twelfth/' 

“ I don't want them," Miss Oharteris observed, raising 
her large blue eyes to his; “ and, do you know, Cousin 
Stuart, strange though it may seem, I am not at all dull 
in your society. ' ' 

Stuart bowed low at her words. 

“ You are easily satisfied," he replied; and at that mo- 
ment his mother reappeared. 

“ Now, Yane, I am at your service. By the bye, Stuart, 
shall we not drive you to Chesterham? I can easily order 
the barouche instead of the pony-carriage. ' ; 

“ Oh, no, thanks!" he answered hurriedly. “ I prefer 
to walk." 

Mrs Crosbie elevated her eyebrows, but made no remark; 
and Yane followed her aunt from the room. On reaching 
the door, she looked back and kissed her hand. 

“ Au revoir , Cousin Stuart!" she said lightly. “ Don't 
stay away too long. ' ' 

Stuart waited only till the ladies had well disappeared; 
then he walked across the hall, caught up his tennis-hat, 
and made his way along the colonnade to the grounds. . He 
stopped at the entrance to the court-yard and whistled for 
his dogs, then, without another look round, started across 
the paddock to the village. 

4: sjc :jc sfc :j« sj« % 

Margery was dressed early, and had packed a small bas- 
ket with some home-made cakes and apples as provender 
for the picnic. She had told Mrs. Morris of her holiday 
and Mr. Stuart's kindness, and occupied herself with many 
little duties of love for the sick woman before she left her. 

Mrs. Morris watched with tender eyes the slender form 
flitting about the room in its plain white-cotton gown. All 
the wealth of her childless heart was bestowed on this girl, 
and in return she received pure and deep affection. 

“ Now are you quite sure, mother, you will not miss 
me?" asked Margery, kneeling by the couch when all her 
duties were done. 

“Nay, that I can not say," Mrs. Morris returned, with 
a faint smile. “ I always miss you, child; but I shall not 
want you. Mrs. Carter is coming in to see me, and Reu- 
ben has promised to come home for dinner." 


MARGERY DAW. 


49 


Reuben will keep his word then/* declared the girl; 
“ but I shall not be away long.** 

“ Stay and amuse yourself, Margery — you are young, 
and should have pleasure. Now get on your bonnet ancl 
start, or you will keep the young squire waiting. ** 

Margery tied on her sun-bonnet. At first she had been 
tempted to don her Sunday hat, a plain wide-brimmed 
straw with a white ribbon; but she checked herself and 
put it away, with a blush at her vanity. She took her 
little basket, and, walking slowly toward the spring, sat 
down by its musical trickling to wait. She felt more than 
ordinarily happy; the memory of Stuart *s kind words had 
driven away the sting of his cousin* s remark; there was 
not a cloud on the horizon of her young life. She wanted 
for nothing to complete her happiness, and reveled in the 
sunshine and the golden glory of summer as only a heart 
can that has tasted no sorrow, seen not the darkness or 
gloom of pain. 

She had not waited long before the sound of hastening 
footsteps told her that Stuart was at hand; and she bent 
to caress the dogs as he approached, thus hiding the pleas- 
ure that dawned on her face. 

“ I am fearfully late, Margery,** Stuart said apologetic- 
ally, as he flung himself down on the cool mossy bank. 
“ By Jove, though, I had no idea I could walk so fast! 
I have come here in no time. ** 

“ You do look tired,** she said quickly; “let us rest 
awhile. Shall I get you some milk?** 

Stuart shuddered. The thought recalled all the horrors 
of Judy*s draught that summer morning. 

“ No, thanks; I will have some water. Do you know, 
Margery* I don*t believe I can go very much further. 
What do you say to a picnic in the Weald wood?** 

“ I think it will be very nice. But, Mr. Stuart, where 
is your basket?** 

“ My basket?** he echoed. 

“ Yes — your lunch,** said Margery, holding out her tiny 
hamper. “You have forgotten it. ** 

“ Yes, I have. Will it matter?** asked Stuart, gravely, 
thinking he had never seen so sweet a picture as the girl 
before him. 

“ Well, you know, to picnic it is necessary to have some 
food: but perhaps, I have enough for both.’* 


50 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ I devoutly hope so!” exclaimed Mr. Crosbie. ee May I 
ask, Margery, what your basket contains?” 

“ Cakes and apples,” she answered promptly. 

(i Hum!” observed Stuart meditatively. “ That sounds 
solid, Margery.” 

“ Don't you like cakes and apples?” 

“ Do you?” he asked. 

“ Very much.” 

“ Then I do too. Now let us get into the woods. By 
the bye, is Reuben about?” 

“ No; I believe he has gone to some of Sir Hubert's 
farms. He started very early this morning; but he will 
be home to dinner. Did you want him, Mr. Stuart?” 

“ No, not particularly. But what a lark if they take us 
up for trespassing — eh, Margery!” 

Margery laughed heartily at the idea. 

“ What would they do to us?” she asked. 

“ Transport us for life perhaps,” Stuart replied, with a 
laugh, as he mounted the narrow wall. “ How would you 
like that, Margery?' ' he added. 

“ Would that mean going away from here?” 

Stuart nodded. 

“ I should not like it at all then,” she declared. 

“ Then you intend to live in Hurstley all your life? Give 
me your hand; there — that is right. The dogs will clear 
it. ” 

Margery jumped lightly from the w r all to the soft turf, 
and then watched the easy way in which the colly and re- 
triever scaled the wall. 

“ How clever they are!” she cried, stooping to pat them. 

“ But you have not answered me. Do you intend to live 
here all your life?” said Stuart, as they strolled in the cool 
shade of the trees. 

Margery looked at him quickly. 

“ I have never thought about it, Mr. Stuart,” she re- 
plied. “ Would it be wrong to wish it?” 

“ Wrong?” he repeated. ^ No, Margery, of course not.” 

“ I love Hurstley,” the girl went on thoughtfully. 
“ Mother lives here, and Reuben, and Lady Coningham, 
though I can not remember her well — still I love her; then 
there are Miss Lawson and all the village.” 

“ No one else?” queried Mr. Crosbie, fixing his eyes on 
her face. 


MARGERY DAW. 


51 


“ Yes— you, Mr. Stuart/' Margery answered softly. 
44 You are here too. " 

44 But suppose that all these friends were to go away — 
suppose you were left alone — would you care for Hurstley 

Margery's face paled. 

44 1 never thought of that/' she murmured. 44 Oh, I 
could not stay then; it would be terrible!" 

Stuart opened his lips as if to speak, then closed them 
firmly again, and for awhile there was silence between 
them as they walked. At last the young squire spoke. 
They had reached a clump of trees, a cooler, shadier spot, 
and here he stopped. 

44 Let us unpack that gigantic basket here, Margery," 
he said lightly. 44 This is the very nook for a picnic." 

Margery tossed off her bonnet, and the young man, 
stretched at full length on the soft grass, feasted his eyes 
on her radiant beauty, feeling that with every look his de- 
termination to see less of this girl was slipping from him, 
and that for him happiness was found only when in her 
presence. 


CHAPTER VII. 

Vane Charteris found the day pass very slowly, with 
no one but her aunt to amuse her. She sat listlessly be- 
side Mrs. Crosbie during the long drive, feeling bored and 
wearied, and yawned through the afternoon in her room, 
finding no pleasure in her mother's society and less in her 
own. The thought that had come to her suddenly in the 
morning grew stronger as the hours passed. As Stuart 
Crosbie's wife, she would taste once more the sweetness of 
her lost power. 

She was leaning by her open window, thinking this, 
heedless of the beauty of the picture that stretched before 
her, when her eyes fell on a man's figure strolling leisurely 
on the lawn — a strange, odd-looking man, who seemed not 
quite at home in his surroundings. Miss Charteris; roused 
from her languor, watched him intently, and at once deter- 
mined that the intruder was a tramp — perhaps one of a 
gang of thieves. She rose quickly, and made her way 
from her room, picking up her sun-shade as she went. 
Her aunt was out at a garden-party, which she had vainly 


52 


MARGERY DAW. 


tried to induce Miss Charteris to attend, her mother was 
enjoying a siesta, and her uncle was absorbed in his books. 
There was no one about, and the castle seemed quite de- 
serted as Vane walked across the hall to the back grounds. 
The man was standing as she had seen him last, his hands 
in his pockets, his hat pulled low over his brows. She 
went toward him at once. 

“ AY hat are you doing here?” she asked sharply. “ Do 
you know you are trespassing?” 

The man turned at her first word; he looked at her 
keenly from a pair of earnest gray eyes, then slowly, and 
with unmistakable courtesy, removed his slouched felt hat. 

“ Trespassing?” he repeated, in a cool tone. “ Do they 
prosecute at Crosbie Castle if a man is found gazing only?” 

“ You are insolent,” Miss Charteris responded frigidly; 
“ and, if you do not leave at once, I shall send some of the 
servants to you.” 

The man replaced his hat, with a curious expression on 
his face. 

“ Pray save yourself that trouble,” he said dryly. “ I 
am going; but may I ask if I have the honor of speaking 
to Mrs. Crosbie?” 

Vane’s face flushed. 

“ No,” she said coldly. 

“ Ah! Miss Crosbie, perhaps?” 

“ No,” she repeated again. 

“Indeed! Then, madame, by what right do you eject 
me?” 

“I am Mrs. Crosbie ’s niece, and, in her absence, do 
what I know she would desire. ” 

“ Mrs. Crosbie’s niece!” repeated the man. “ So Mrs. 
Crosbie rules the castle! Where is the squire?” 

Miss Charteris moved away a little. 

“ I shall answer no more questions,” she said quietly. 
“ I must request you to go away at once.” 

“ There spoke George Charteris!’ ’ muttered the stranger, 
as if to himself. 

Vane started; she could hardly believe her ears. This 
shabby man to mention her father’s name! It was ex- 
traordinary, and not pleasant. 

“ I do not know who you are,” she said, with marked 
irritation; “ but you have heard what I said, and you take 


MARGERY DAW. 53 

no notice of my words. It now remains for the servants 
to see if they will be more successful.” 

“ Softly, softly, my young lady!” said the man, putting 
his hand on her arm. “You are much too hasty, and, 
like all intemperate spirits, judge by appearances only. 
How do you know whether I have business here or not — 
whether my visit may not be that of a friend?” 

“ Friend!” echoed Miss Charteris sarcastically, at the 
same time hurriedly drawing her arm from his touch. 

“ I see,” continued the stranger, half closing his eyes, 
and fixing her with a look which annoyed and fidgeted her, 
“ I see you count Squire Crosbie's friends by the cut of 
their coats. Stay: let me convince you that people are not 
always what they seem.” 

At that moment a footman was passing along the colon- 
nade ; and, calling in a loud voice, the stranger attracted 
his attention. 

“ Is your master in?” was the question, put easily and 
naturally. 

The footman hesitated for an instant; but the presence 
of Miss Charteris reassured him. 

“ Yes, sir.” 

“ Kindly inform him that I am here. ” 

“ What name, sir?” the man asked. 

“ Sir Douglas Gerant.” 

The footman bowed and turned away, while Vane felt 
that she wished the ground would open and swallow up this 
queer, dried, cynical cousin or herself — it mattered not 
which. Never" had she. been in so disagreeable a position. 
Sir Douglas came to her rescue. 

“Will you forgive me?” he said, quietly extending his 
hand, a long thin white hand, which seemed strangely at 
variance with his rough, ill-cut clothes. 

“ It is I who must ask that,” she replied. “ Of course, 
had I known — •” 

“ Naturally, naturally,” interrupted Sir Douglas. “ Let 
us say no more about it. So my cousin Constance is out? 
Well, I hope she will forgive me for taking her by storm in 
this way. And where is her boy?” 

“ Stuart has gone to Chesterham.” 

“ Hum! And is he a nice fellow? Do you like him? ,r v 

Miss Charteris hesitated. 


54 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Yes,” she replied slowly, “ I like Stuart very much. 
You will see him this evening. ” 

“Hum!” observed Sir Douglas again; and at that in- 
stant, the squire's tall thin figure appeared, a look of un- 
disguised pleasure on his face. 

“ My dear Douglas!" 

“ Sholto, old fellow!” 

The two men clasped hands; no words of stronger wel- 
come were spoken, but their eyes looked all they would say; 
the hand-grip testified more plainly than words. What 
memories filled the mind of each as they stood thus face to 
face — the traces of the world's buffets in their worn linea- 
ments — memories of two young forms with hope and vigor 
shining in their glowing eyes, determination and ambition 
strong in their hearts. 

“ Welcome — a thousand times welcome!” said the 
squire, after a moment's silence. “ I received your letter 
this morning. We expected you to-morrow. ” 

Sir Douglas laughed. 

“ Yes, I thought so; but I am not an orthodox person 
at all. I break through all rules and regulations. I look 
like a tramp. Ask this young lady if she does not think 
so,” he added abruptly. 

Vane's face flushed — she was inwardly much annoyed; 
but Sir Douglas continued, speaking easily, and her confu- 
sion was unnoticed. 

“ I was eager to see you, Sholto, and I started off almost 
as soon as I had dispatched my letter. I have had a great 
wish to see you for the last month.” 

“ I am heartily glad to meet you once more," the squire 
responded; and his face looked brighter than usual. “ But 
how have you come, Douglas?” 

“ On foot,” returned Sir Douglas calmly. “ My man 
will arrive with my traps in about an hour's time.” 

“ On foot from Chesterham! You must be tired out. 
Come to my study. What volumes of anecdotes we could 
write, Douglas, of our respective lives! Vane, my dear, 
will you come with us?” 

“ No,” replied Miss Charteris, with a forced smile. “ I 
will go and tell mamma that Bir Douglas has arrived.” 

She moved away gracefully as she spoke; Sir Douglas 
looked after her. 

“ That is George Charteris's girl?” he asked. 


MARGERY DAW. 55 

“ Yes. She is very beautiful, is she not?” returned the 
squire dreamily. 

“ Hum!” observed Sir Douglas to himself. “ She may 
be; but — ■” 

The sentence was left unfinished, and the strange guest 
followed the squire into the house. 

“ How unchanged it all is!” he remarked, as he entered 
the great hall. “I seem to have stepped back into my 
boyhood again, Sholto. Ah, we don’t wear as well as 
bricks and mortar, old fellow! Only a few short years, 
and we are both wrecks of what we were!” 

They had entered a smaller apartment at the back of the 
building, one used by the squire as his study and own spe- 
cial sanctum. Books and pamphlets were carelessly strewn 
about; and the room, in its plain appointments, told 
clearly and distinctly the character of its owner. 

The squire pushed forward a large chair to the window, 
and Sir Douglas throwing off his hat, seated himself in it, 
whilst the squire settled himself at the table. 

“ Did my letter startle you?” asked Sir Douglas sud- 
denly. . 

“ Yes, it did,” was the candid answer. “ I had begun 
to think you would never return to England, that you 
would die as you have lived, a wanderer from your home.” 

i( A weary, restless wanderer — a man, Sholto, with but 
one thought in, his mind, one desire in his wanderings, one 
wish that has never been fulfilled. Ah, you have judged 
me as the world has judged me, an ill-conditioned fellow 
who loved all nations and people above his own! But you 
have wronged me — the world has wronged me. I am as 
capable of strong domestic feeling as any man living. I 
am what I am through trickery and deceit.” 

The squire gazed earnestly at his cousin’s face, the thin 
features illumined by a sudden rush of color. Sir Douglas 
turned, and, as his eyes met that earnest gaze, he sunk 
back slowly in his chair, and the old cynical look came 
again. 

(i I must not bore you with my hidden griefs, Sholto,” 
he said dryly; “ they are musty and gray now with age.” 

“ You mistake if you think they bore me. I have never 
judged you hardly, Douglas. Your nature was not a com- 
mon one. To me your life has fitted your nature. ” 

“ My life,” echoed the guest a little sadly. “ What a 


56 


MARGERY DAW. 


weary turmoil it seems looking back at it now, what cease- 
less restlessness! Ah, cousin, you have had the best of it, 
after all!” 

The squire made no reply. 

“ Let us bn 1 1 1 3a bitter taste behind. 



I wrote to you with 


I will come 


one idea and thought prominent in my mind. In another 
month or so I shall leave England again, perhaps this time 
never to return; but, before I go, I want to leave my old 
inheritance an heir, and I must find him here. ” 

“Here!” repeated the squire. “You forget, Douglas, 

I am seven years your senior, and in all probability — ” 

“ I do not mean you. You have a son.” 

“ Stuart?” exclaimed the squire. “ Yes. You have 
never seen him, Douglas. He is the best in the world. ” 

“ I do not need your word to tell me that. I have heard 
of this son. The world is very small, and my ears are 
always sharp. He was in Calcutta last year. Yes, and I 
was there too. ” 

“ Then you know him?” 

Sir Douglas shook his head. 

“ I never saw him; but I heard of his good, walrn, gen- 
erous nature, and, judging him as your son, my heart went 
out to him. ” 

“ It is a noble offer,” the squire said, in his quiet simple 
way. “ But is there no one whom you would care to select 
outside the family? Stuart will inherit the castle, remem- * 


ber. ” 


“ There is not a soul,” Sir Douglas replied, in low tones. 
“ Don't cross me in this, Sholto; to your son I would will- 
ingly give all I possess. Heaven grant he may derive 
greater happiness from it than I have done!” 

There was a silence between the two men; then the squire 
said gently: 

“You look worn and tired, Douglas. Must you leave 
England again so soon?” 

“Yes,” Sir Douglas returned briefly. “ My search is 
not ended; if nothing else will support me, revenge will.” 
He paused for an instant, then went on quickly, “ Sholto, 
old fellow, don't think me mad or wild; there is a spot in 
my past which even you can never see. Only thus much I 
will tell you, that, though I am a cynical, dry, hard creat- 
ure now, ihere was a time, a brief heavenly time, when my 


MARGERY DAW. 


57 


life was as full of joy and vigor as your son’s is now. The 
memory of that dead joy, the memory of my terrible wrong 
— for I was wronged — has destroyed my lifers happiness. I 
live only for two things — to be revenged and to be satis- 
fied.” 

He rose from his chair as he spoke, and strode rapidly 
up and down the room, while the squire watched him ten- 
derly and sorrowfully. He read the depth of trouble in the 
grief -distorted face; but he did not seek to know this or 
learn in any way the truth of his cousin’s strange career. 
Sir Douglas suddenly stopped in his hurried walk. 

“I am not myself to-day, Sliolto,” he said, relapsing 
into his dry manner. “ My return to your old home, where 
everything speaks of the past, has worked badly on me; but 
the weakness is gone, and — don't be alarmed — it will not 
come again . 99 

The squire said nothing, but stretched out his hand and 
grasped his cousin’s in silence. Sir Douglas turned away 
as their fingers unloosened and threw himself into his chair 
again. 

“ I shall stay with you for a week or two, Sholto,” he 
went on presently. “ I want to make friends with Stuart 
— and then I shall disappear. I trust your wife will not 
be alarmed at my rough appearance; I believe I have some 
decent coats among my things — I must look them out.” 

“ Constance will welcome you warmly,” though he shift- 
ed his papers nervously about as he spoke. 

“ More especially when she knows what has brought 
me,” was Sir Douglas’s muttered thought. 

Then he turned the conversation on other things; and 
the two men were soon lost in an argument, talking as 
easily and naturally as though fifteen days, not years, had 
elapsed since their last meeting. 

Meanwhile, away in the Weald grounds, the picnic was 
progressing well. Margery had spread her snow-white 
cloth on the turf and placed the dainty cakes and apples 
upon it; and despite Stuart’s grumbling, he eat heartily of 
the simple repast. 

“ I call this heavenly!” he exclaimed, as he lay on the 
grass, leaning on his elbow, and watched Margery feed the 
dogs. 

‘ 4 It is nice, ” she agreed, turning her great sapphire eyes 


58 


MARGERY daw. 


on him; “ but I do all the work and you picnic, Mr. 
Stuart. I am afraid you are very lazy.” 

“ I know I am,” confessed the young man; “ but you 
forget how hard I have always worked, Margery,” he 
added. 

Margery shook her wealth of red-gold hair, and laughed 
a sweet musical laugh that rang through the summer 
silence. 

“Worked,” she repeated — “you worked! I don't be- 
lieve you really know what work means. ' ' 

“ I do seem to have led a purposeless life when I think 
of it,” Stuart observed reflectively. “ The hardest day I 
ever had was when I went tiger-shooting. ” 

“ Tiger-shooting!” repeated the girl, paling. “ Oh, 
Mr. Stuart, it sounds so dreadful!” 

“You are a little coward, Margery,” Stuart laughed. 
“ By Jove, though, how you would have enjoyed some of 
the things I did ! I am sure you would be a good sailor. 
Margery, how would you like to be out at sea and not a 
speck of land in sight r” 

“ I have read of the sea; but I have never seen it,” 
Margery said simply. “ But I think I should like it; there 
must be such a grandeur and beauty in rolling waves and 
great moving waters. I wish you would tell me something 
about it, Mr. Stuart.” 

Stuart moved into a sitting position and leaned his back 
against the trunk of a giant tree. 

“ I shall have to write a book about my travels, and dedi- 
cate it to you,” he said lightly. 

Margery smiled, and then put her arm round the colly's 
neck, and drew the dog's head on to her knees. The re- 
triever had retired to a shady spot, and was stretched out 
fast asleep. Stuart launched at once into anecdotes of the 
sea; he knew just where to put a telling touch and wake 
the interest; and Margery listened eagerly, drinking in the 
wonders with pretty incredulity and making Stuart break 
into hearty fits of laughter at her ignorant nautical re- 
marks. 

The afternoon passed quickly; the sun had moved 
round, and cast slanting rays of golden light into the green 
nook. It touched Margery's head, seeming to rest on the 
soft silky curls with delight. She looked so sweet in her 
plain white gown — a very flower of purity and beauty — 


MARGERY DAW. 


59 


that Stuart’s eyes, resting on her, would make him hesitate 
in his story and his heart thfill with a strong wave of un- 
speakable pleasure. To Margery the moments slipped 
away too quickly; she reveled in these tales of strange 
countries, in the adventures and hair-breadth escapes that 
had filled those two years of travel. 

44 How beautiful and how strange it must have been, Mr. 
Stuart!” she said, drawing a deep breath, after awhile. 
44 You must find Hurstley dull.” 

44 Hurstley to me is the most beautiful place in the whole 
world,” Stuart said involuntarily. 44 1 love it.” 

44 Ah, so do I!” cried the girl. 44 But then I am differ- 
ent.” There was a slight pause, and she went on thinking 
of what he had just told her. 44 Then I was wrong when I 
said you had not worked — why, you helped to save the ship 
that stormy night, Mr. Stuart!” 

Stuart smiled as he moved nearer and held out his hand. 

44 There is the mark of the cut from one of the ropes. 
Now you will give me credit for some good, Margery?” 

The girl took the hand between her own two small brown 
ones. She bent her head to look at the scar, while, at the 
touch of her fingers, Stuart felt his whole being thrill and 
the last barrier that stood between himself and his love 
melt away. 

44 Yes — yes, I see,” Margery said gently. 44 Oh, Mr. 
Stuart, what pain you must have suffered!” 

She raised her luminous eyes to him, their blue depths 
darkened almost to blackness at the thought of that terri- 
ble night at sea, and met the steady passionate gaze bent 
on her. Some new sense flooded her mind; in one second 
all her girlish innocence vanished; she knew that she was 
on the brink of a great wondrous event, though she could 
not guess what it was. She dropped Stuart’s hand, and 
rose hurriedly. 

44 It is getting late; we must go,” she declared. 44 Moth- 
er will want me. ” 

Stuart at once moved to her side. He took the sun-bon- 
net from her hand, and imprisoned the small fingers within 
his own. 

44 Margery,” he said softly, 44 Is mother the only one who 
wants you? Will you not stay with me? Ah, my dar- 
ling,” he cried, bending to catch her other hand and seeing 
the trembling lips and great wondrous startled eyes, 44 1 


60 


MARGERY DAW. 


.have frightened you! You do not know — how could you? 
how much you have become to me. Margery, I did not 
mean to speak yet — 1 meant to wait, and let your love 
grow; but your sweet. face has urged me, and I can wait 
no longer. Margery, my own darling, I love you! Do 
you love me?” 

Margery felt herself drawn into his strong arms. She 
looked up at him for one instant, then said softly — 

“ Love! What is love?” 

“ Love,” cried Stuart, “ is the greatest joy or the great- 
est pain. To love is to think, dream, live only for one 
person, to be happy when near them, lonely when away, 
ever longing to clasp their hand, listen to their voice, as I 
have done these past weeks, my own sweet dear one. ” 

. “ Then the color came vividly into the cream-white 
cheeks, the eyelids drooped, and the graceful head was 
bent — “ then I do km you, Mr. Stuart; but — ” 

“ But!” interrupted Stuart, gathering her to his arms. 
“ There is no c but/ my darling, my very own! Oh, Mar- 
gery, if you could know what happiness I feel! It is such 
peace after doubt and perplexity. See — just now you 
threw my hand away; I give it to you again, my darling, 
yours to defend and tend you when you are my wife. ” 

“ Your wife!” faltered Margery; and she trembled — the 
suddenness, the sweetness of this news seemed to have taken 
all strength from her. She lived in an indescribable dream 
of happiness; Stuart's arms were round her, his eyes gazed 
into hers, his voice was whispering tenderly in her ear. She 
could not then grasp the full extent of her joy, she was 
dazed by the passion and depths of his love. 

“Yes, my wife, thank Heaven!” said Stuart, reverently 
raising one small hand to his lips. 

“ Margery, each day that has gone has linked me closer 
to you — try as I would, my love would turn to you. There 
may be storms in life before us,” he went on hurriedly, in- 
voluntarily drawing the slender form closer to him as he 
thought of his mother's anger — “ there may be trials, bat- 
tles to fight; but we will be firm and trust in each other. 
If we have love, we shall be satisfied. " 

“ My love will never, never die," Margery murmured 
slowly, drawing herself out of his arms. “ But it is all so 
strange — you to love me! And — ah, what will madame 


MARGERY DAW. 


61 


say, Mr. Stuart? I don’t know why, but I am sure she 
does not like me. ” 

“ Margery ” — and Stuart drew her back to him again 
and kissed the sweet lips — “ we are pledged to each other, 
and none shall part us. Leave all to me, and it will come 
right. And now I have a lesson to teach you — henceforth 
I am Stuart, and Stuart only; don’t forget. ” 

“ I will not,” she promised. She was silent for an in- 
stant, then said softly. “ How good you are! I will try to 
be worthy of you. Something tells me, Stuart, that I am 
not a common village girl. You will know the truth per- 
haps some day, and then you will be proud of me.” 

“ I shall never be prouder of you than I am now!” cried 
the young man fervently. “ I care not what you are — I 
love you; you shall be my wife!” 

Margery raised her lovelit eyes, eloquent in tenderness, 
to his, and then smiled. 

“ Our picnic is ended,” she said, loosing herself from 
his hold and picking up her sun -bonnet; ‘‘ the dogs are 
tired of waiting : we must go. ” 

Stuart watched her pack her basket and tie on the sim- 
ple head-gear, his heart throbbing with pure passionate 
love. Henceforth, let come what might, this girl belonged 
to him — she was his very own. 

“ Margery,” he said, as they stood together before start- 
ing, “ this is the birth of our happiness. Remember, my 
darling, that you now are my life, my very soul. If clouds 
should gather, turn to me and I will sweep them away.” 

Margery rested her hand for one moment on his shoulder. 

“ Stuart,” she said steadily, “ I was a girl an hour ago 
— I am a woman now. As you love me, dear, so I love 
you, and ever shall, though a world should stretch between 
us. ” 


CHAPTER VIII. 

The sun was growing ruddy in its glory, filling the 
heavens with a radiant beautiful light, Margery had parted 
with Stuart at the Weald gate, and, urged by the wonder 
and fullness of her happiness she turned back again to the 
spot henceforth engraved on her memory with a golden 
touch. She stood beneath the tree that had reared its 
branches over her unconscious head through the past hours. 


62 


MARGERY DAW. 


and her heart thrilled again and again at the thought of 
the marvelous treasure that had come to her. Stuart 
Crosbie loved her — loved her — Margery Daw — a girl with- 
out even a name to call her own! She covered her eyes 
with her hands, as if to shield them from the memory of 
his passionate glances. What had she ever done to deserve 
this happiness? Had not her soul murmured often, fretted 
beneath the cloud of mystery that hung over her? Ah, 
how wrong she had been! Even while she had murmured 
a gift was coming to her, a gift beside which all else faded 
away and vanished. A sudden impulse moved the girl. 
She was alone; save for the occasional notes of the birds, 
the faint flutter of the leaves, there was not a sound to 
break the silence. On the very spot where she had stood 
when Stuart uttered his earnest, fervent vows she knelt and 
sent up words of thankfulness. Then she sunk upon the 
ground, and, nestling close to the tree, let her fancy wander 
to the future. She felt at times as if she could not be the 
Margery of the morning — so far away now — and she almost 
doubted whether it was not all a dream, till a sudden re- - 
collection of her lover^s voice — the memory of his words — 
returned, and she knew it was a blissful reality. 

The minutes slipped away, and it was not till the chim- 
ing of a distant clock fell on her ear that Margery began to 
realize how long she had sat and how late it was. She rose 
hurriedly and made her way through the wood to the path. 
She had her secret to whisper to the poor sick mother at 
home, and the thought lent speed to her feet. What joy 
she would bring to that tender heart! What happiness to 
share her new delights with such a one ! 

She ran down the hill, the ripple of the stream sound- 
ing in her ears like music, and approached the garden gate. 

A lady was seated in the cottage door- way; and, as Mar- 
gery was hurrying up the path, she rose and came to meet 
her. 

“ Miss Lawson!^ exclaimed Margery, in surprise. 

“ I have been waiting here nearly an hour,” the govern- 
ess returned; “your mother has been extremely unwell, 
and — ” 

“ Mother ill!” exclaimed Margery, with a sudden pang. 

“ Oh, let me go to her!” 

Miss Lawson put a detaining hand upon the giiTs arm. 

“ You must not disturb her; she lias just dropped off to 


MARGERY DAW. 63 

sleep. Reuben has gone to fetch Doctor Metcalf, and Mrs. 
Carter is sitting in-doors to see to her.” 

Margery's face had grown very sad. 

“ What is it?” she asked, in a low voice. “ She was 
weak when I left her to-day, but not more than usual. ” 

“ She had a severe fit of coughing, and it brought on an 
attack of the hemorrhage again; it has stopped now, but it 
has left her very weak. You can do nothing just now, 
Margery; and I came purposely to talk to you.” 

Miss Lawson was a small thin woman with a quiet de- 
termined face, which from long contact with the world had 
grown almost stern; but there were gleams of warmth and 
kindliness from the clear gray eyes and a touch even of 
tenderness about the mouth sometimes. Now, though she 
spoke in her keen dry way, there was an expression of kind- 
ness, almost affection, on her features as she looked at 
Margery. The girl turned back from the door at once. 

“Shall I bring you a chair here. Miss Lawson?” she 
asked quietly — this news of her mother's illness had fallen 
as a cloud on the brilliancy of her joy. 

“ No. Come outside and stroll part of the way home 
with me," said Miss Lawson. “ I have something of im- 
portance to say to you — indeed I have wanted to speak to 
you for several days past; but I had nothing very definite 
in my mind at the time. To-day I have.” 

Margery followed the rectory governess down the path 
in silence. 

“Margery,” began Miss Lawson, abruptly, “ have you 
ever thought about your future? Have you ever thought 
what will become of you when Mary Morris dies?” 

The flush called up by the first sentence died away quick- 
ly, and Margery's face paled. She put her hand suddenly 
to her heart. 

“ Is she going to die so soon?" she murmured, involun- 
tarily. “ Oh, Miss Lawson, you do not think she will die 
soon?” 

“It is impossible to say,” returned the elder woman, 
quietly. “ Mrs. Morris has been gradually sinking all this 
summer; she may linger for months, or she may pass away 
at any moment. It is not her present illness that has 
caused me to speak; as I tell you, I have intended doing so 
for days past. I have considered it my duty to put matters 
clearly before you.” 


64 


MARGERY I) AAV. 


She paused for an instant. Margery's face was pained 
and sad; her heart was heavy with sorrow and dread; all 
sunshine seemed suddenly to have gone from her life, and, 
for the moment, Stuart, her lover, was forgotten. 

“ Perhaps you will think me harsh,” Miss Lawson went 
on, 44 when I say that I consider it time you began to plan 
your future life. Remember, you are now about seven- 
teen, and in another year — indeed, now — should take upon 
yourself the responsibilities of life. Hitherto you have been 
tended and cared for by two women. Lady Coningham 
has opened her purse generously, poor Mary Morns has 
lavished the wealth of her whole heart on you ; but now, 
when she is taken from you, you will have but Lady Con- 
ingham to fall back upon; and, unless I judge you wrong- 
ly, I think you will grow weary of your dependence, and 
long to be free. Don't think me unkind, child,” continued 
Miss Lawson, putting a hand on the girl's slender shoulder. 
44 If I did not like you so much — if I did not know the 
good in your nature — I should not speak so plainly. But 
you must review your position. You are grown now al- 
most to womanhood; you are educated above the level of 
many a girl of wealthier station; you have natural gifts 
that will aid you; and I say distinctly, you should shake 
yourself free, not with ingratitude, but with a sense of duty 
and independence. Believe me, Margery, in the long run 
you will be far happier.” 

k4 Yes, you are right,” the girl assented. She had fol- 
lowed each word and grasped the meaning instantly. Her 
natural pride was roused in one moment, and she felt a 
thrill of desire to add no more to her*heavy debt of kind- 
ness — to be indeed free. 

44 Understand me — you must not turn suddenly and be 
selfishly murmuring over the past," urged Miss Lawson, 
who had been closely watching the girl. 4 4 Whatever hap- 
pens, be grateful, Margery. " 

44 I am — I am,” cried Margery, 44 thankful to all, and 
to you, for you have done so much for me, and now you 
come to help me again?" 

44 As I shall always help you, I hope,” returned the gov- 
erness. 44 1 knew you would understand me, Margery — I 
felt you would be true to your nature. I waited only till I 
had something definite to propose before I spoke to you.” 
She drew out a letter from her pocket as she finished. 


MARGERY DAW. 


65 


“ You have heard me speak of my sister, Mrs. Fothergill. 
This is from her. She has married a doctor in London, a 
man who is fast becoming celebrated as a specialist. I 
have written many times about you, and, when we have 
met, I have chatted to her, till she thoroughly realizes 
what you are. This letter came only this morning, and it 
contains something that I thought would just suit you.-” 

“ Yes?” said Margery simply. 

Miss Lawson unfolded the letter. 

“ ‘You have often heard me mention Lady Enid 
Walsh/ ” she read, “‘the poor young creature whom 
John has been attending during the past year. I was sit- 
ting with her yesterday. She seems to have taken a fancy 
to me, and during our conversation she asked me to help 
her to find a companion. She has a lady with her now, an 
officer’s widow; but she is not a pleasant woman, and they 
are going to part. I feel so sorry for Lady Enid — young, 
with beauty and rank, and a cripple for life! She leads 
such an isolated existence! — for her aunt, Lady Merivale, 
at whose house she resides, is very old, and almost always 
confined to her room, and Lady Enid’s only brother, the 
Earl of Court, is never in England. She welcomes me so 
warmly, and opens her heart to me! She told me that she 
would like a bright young girl for companion — if possible 
from the country. Lady Enid adores the country; but 
she is compelled to live in London to be near the doctors 
and under the so-called care of her aunt. Immediately 
she spoke of a country-girl my thoughts flew to your pupil 
Margery Daw. From your accounts I feel sure she is the 
very person to suit the poor young invalid. Do you think 
this could be managed? She would have a luxurious home, 
a really magnificent salary, and I feel sure would soon grow 
to love Lady Enid — no one could help doing so. I half 
said I knew of some one, and she adopted the idea eagerly; 
so I hasten to write to you. 

“ ‘ The question is whether Margery would like the life. 
It would be dull, very dull; but Lady Enid is a most 
charming and intellectual companion, and very unselfish. I 
know you have been anxious j 1 



seems such a wonderful chance 


I shall be disappointed if it falls through. I suppose Lady 
Coningham would not object to her protege’s becoming in- 


8 


66 


MARGERY DAW. 


dependent? Write by return, and let me know what you 
think of my proposal; and, if you approve, try to arrange 
it as quickly as possible, as the widow-lady leaves in a fort- 
night. ” 

Miss Lawson folded the letter slowly, and put it back 
into her pocket. 

“ That is all,” she said ^quietly. “ Now, Margery, it 
remains for you to express your feelings.” 

“ It is so sudden," responded Margery faintly; her 
hands were clasped together, her face, hidden behind the 
flopping sun-bonnet, was perplexed, pained, and troubled. 

What must she do? How could she leave Hurstley, 
where every tree and stone was precious to her, and where 
her heart was bound? Should she speak openly of her 
love at once, her future marriage with the young squire 
of Crosbie Castle? The words 1 ” -and then 



Lawson 


she hesitated. Instinctively 


would not approve of the engagement; and she vividly 
recalled madame^s unceasing dislike. No, she could not 
speak of it yet; it was so new, so strange; perhaps, after 
all, it might not be — and her hands pressed her heart 
closely. She would leave all to him ; he must speak out, 
she could not. And what then must she say to this pro- 
posal? Could she leave Hurstley — go from the sun which 
gave her being life, into a lonely, strange world — leave all 
that she knew and loved so well — the tiny cottage, the 
sweet-smelling woods and lanes, and the poor sick woman, 
a mother in all but truth? That last thought came as a 
golden gleam. 

“ Mother!”' she said hurriedly, “ I can not leave her.” 

“ Then you renounce all thought of independence,” she 
observed coldly, watching the girTsH'ace with something 
like a frown on her own. 

“I do not,” replied Margery firmly. “ I have listened 
to your advice, and I will take it; but I must first think 
of her. She will miss me. Miss Lawson — I know she 


“Well,” said Miss Lawson, after a pause, “ that is 
true. It would be cruel to leave her now. I will write to 
my sister and thank her in your name, and explain why 
you refuse.” 


MARGERY DAW. 


67 


(i You are not cross with me?” Margery murmured, 
putting out her hand suddenly. 

“ Cross? No, my child. I wish it might have been 
arranged; but you are right; it is your duty to stay with 
Mary Morris, and help to cheer her sad life. In the fut- 
ure, if ever you want help, come to me, and what I can do 
I will." 

Margery's eyes met the governess's steady gaze, and then 
she bent forward and kissed her. 

“ I will come to you," she said simply; and the two 
women separated. 

Margery hurried down the hill toward home. She felt 
weary, almost exhausted; it had been a day of extreme 
mental excitement. As she passed the woods and the 
stream, her thoughts went back to Stuart, and she felt 
again the power of his love. Why should she have doubted 
him? Why not have spoken bravely of their love? Had 
he not said himself that storms might come, but he would 
face them all? To-morrow she would seek Miss Lawson, 
and, strong in the knowledge of Stuart's great honest 
heart, tell her all. Now she must hasten to the sick wom- 
an, and watch beside her with tender care and hope. 

******* 

Stuart Crosbie strode home to the castle, feeling that he 
had left behind him everything that made life happy. Ilis 
love for Margery had been growing slowly but surely dur- 
ing the past three months that had elapsed since his return 
home. Her beauty bewitched and inthralled him, her 
freshness and sweetness linked him still more strongly, 
her daintiness and natural refinement appealed to him 
through all. He knew there would be trouble, that his 
mother would denounce his choice; but his mind was made 
up, his will, the will of which she was so proud herself, 
would be firm as iron. Let all the world rage, Margery 
should be his wife. Though she was nameless, a waif, a 
nobody, was she not a pure, sweet girl? Were these 
worldly considerations stains on her fair character? No; 
his heart was given, his mind made up, and nothing should 
move him. He raised his head proudly at this thought, a 
look of determination on his face. He was armed for the 
fray; but while he gloried in his own strength, there came 
the thought of Margery's weakness. Would she brave the 


6 8 


MARGERY DAW. 


storm as he could? Would not the bitterness of his moth- 
er's anger wound and humiliate her? His face softened. 
He must shield his sweet love from the fierceness of the 
battle, tenderly protect her from the cruel wind of harsh- 
ness and coldness that would most assuredly greet her at 
Crosbie Castle. 

He chose the path through the paddock, and walked 
through the court-yard just as the tower clock chimed a 
quarter to eight. He had but a few minutes to change his 
tennis suit for his dinner garb, and he ran hurriedly from 
the coach-house round to the lawn, determined to make a 
rush to his room. He dismissed his dog with a word, sped 
fleetly across the grounds till he reached the colonnade, and 
entered it, when suddenly by some mischance his foot 
slipped. He made a vain effort to save himself; his head 
swum ; he was conscious of a sudden sharp twinge of pain ; 
and, falling heavily, he knew no more. 

* * * * * * * 

Sir Douglas Gerant, after a lengthened chat with his 
cousin, mounted to his room, and dressed himself with due 
regard for the exigencies of polite society. The hard 
cynical look that had rested on his face during his conver- 
sation with Vane Charteris and in the political argument 
with the squire had now vanished. He looked worn and 
ill as he walked slowly up and down his room; his eyes 
were sad, his head drooped. He seemed to be thinking 
deeply at last, with a deep-drawn sigh, he seated himself 
at the table and wrote a letter. It was a summons to his 
lawyer, bidding him draw up a will, and fixing a day for 
him to come to Crosbie Castle. This done. Sir Douglas 
leaned back in his chair and covered his eyes with his hand 
for several minutes. The entrance of his valet, a man 
who had been his faitlif ul servant and companion for years, 
roused him; and, bidding the valet dispatch* the letter 
quickly. Sir Douglas left his room and descended the broad 
staircase. As he passed through the wide hall to the 
colonnade, its white pillars, gleaming against the back- 
ground of green, tinged now with the ruddy gold of the 
setting sun, made a picture gratifying to his artistic eye. 
He sauntered on, determining to seek the grounds, when 
his eyes fell on Stuart's prostrate form and pale face. In 
an instant he was kneeling beside the young man, and his 


MARGERY DAW. 


69 


clear voice rang out to the butler, who happened to be 
passing to the dining-room. 

The man hurried up with some brandy, and Sir Doug- 
las, with almost professional dexterity lifted Stuart's head 
and poured a few drops between the closed lips. He 
watched the color slowly return, and the eyes open, with a 
look of anxiety and tenderness on his face. 

“That is right!" he said gently, as he met Stuart's 
gaze. “ Are you hurt?" 

“ My arm!" murmured the young man faintly, as the 
butler and Sir Douglas helped him to rise. 

The baronet cast a keen glance at the right hand, hang- 
ing limp and swollen. 

“ You have had an ugly fall," he* said briefly. “ Your 
arm is broken — how did it happen?" 

He pushed Stuart gently into a chair near at hand, and, 
while he spoke, he deftly cut away the slight tennis-sleeve 
from the wounded limb with a pair of scissors taken from 
his pocket. 

“I can't quite remember," Stuart replied, speaking 
with an effort, and passing his left hand over his eyes. 
“ I came an awful cropper, I know, and must have banged 
my head. Is the arm broken? If so, you had better send 
for Metcalf, and have it set. " 

The butler was moving away; but Sir Douglas stopped 
him. 

“ There is no need to send to the village — I can manage 
this. Go up to my room and send down my man; it is 
not the first time he has helped me in this sort of thing. " 

Stuart lay back in his chair; he was still feeling faint 
and weak. He caught Sir Douglas's eye, and smiled a 
little. 

“ I feel rather like what the boys used to call a ‘ jolly 
duffer,' " he said slowly. “ I can't think what made me 
so stupid; I don't usually fall about in this way. I wonder 
how long I was insensible — and I have never thanked you 
for helping me." Stuart was gradually recovering him- 
self, and woke to the fact that this was a stranger. “ I 
beg your pardon." 

“ It is granted, Cousin Stuart." 

Stuart looked mystified, and then said, suddenly putting 
out his left hand — 

“ You are Douglas Gerant; I am very glad to see you." 


70 


MARGERY DAW. 


Sir Douglas grasped the hand. 

“ Thanks, my lad,” he said quietly; then, looking 
round — 44 Here is Murray. Now sit quiet, and don't 
speak, and we'll settle you in a trice.'' 

Stuart watched his cousin curiously as he prepared the 
bandages and improvised some splints; he scarcely felt the 
long white fingers as they moved over his wounded arm, 
and winced only as the bones clicked together. But he 
grew fainter as the bandages were wound round; and, as 
the operation was finished. Sir Douglas, without a word, 
held the brandy to his lips again and forced him to drink 
some. 

44 You have pluck, Stuart,'' he said, quietly. “You 
are of the stuff to make a man. Now, if you take my ad- 
vice, you will go to your room and rest. I fancy that arm 
will trouble you rather to-night; so try to get some sleeji 
now. ' ' 

4 4 My head feels rather queer, 1 confess," Stuart re- 
sponded; and he gladly let his cousin draw his hand 
through his arm, and lead him through the hall to the 
stairs. 

Mrs. Crosbie was sailing down as they approached. 

44 Stuart," she exclaimed, in genuine dismay, “ what is 
the matter?'' 

4 4 He has fallen and broken his arm," Sir Douglas an- 
swered quietly. 44 1 am taking him to his room; it will be 
wiser to let him pass. Cousin Constance, as he has had a 
nasty touch on the head.'' 

44 Arm broken!" cried Mrs. Crosbie, in alarm. 44 But 
it must be set! I will send for Doctor Metcalf at once!" 

44 You can send for the doctor, if you like," Sir Douglas 
remarked, as he drew Stuart np the stairs; 44 but his arm 
is already set. I have had considerable experience in such 
cases, and I can assure you it is all right." 

Stuart smiled faintly at his mother, and she followed 
him up the stairs, a little annoyed, a little anxious, and, 
oddly enough, a little glad — annoyed because Sir Douglas 
had taken so much- upon himself, anxious for her son, 
whom she loved better than anything on earth, and glad, 
because she saw in this illness a chance of bringing about 
the marriage between Yane and Stuart which she so much 
desired. 

Sir Douglas left the mother and son together when he 


MARGERY DAW. 


71 

had ensconced his patient comfortably in a large chair; and 
Mrs. Crosbie busied herself with many little offices about 
the room, quitting the apartment only when she saw 
Stuart's eyes close in slumber. She met Vane on the 
landing, and, with an affectionate glance, drew the girl's 
hand through her arm. 

“ He is resting, dear," she said; “ so I shall leave him 
for awhile. We must nurse him together, and we shall 
soon get him well." 

Vane's face flushed a little. 

“ I will help you gladly," she returned, and she spoke 
honestly. Her first thought, like her aunt's, had been 
that this would bring Stuart and herself more together. 
She had another duty to perform too. She must ingratiate 
herself with Sir Douglas Gerant, and try by every means 
in her power to wipe away the memory of her foolish mis- 
take. 

Stuart slept for an hour or two, and dreamed of Margery, 
but when he woke the pain in his arm was so great that 
even her sweet image was banished from his thoughts. His 
mother came in as night fell, but Stuart was too ill to 
broach the subject of his love. The blow on the head was 
more severe than he had imagined, and he grew feverish 
as the day declined. He heard the tower clock chime the 
night hours, and whenever he moved his head, his eyes 
rested on the figure of Sir Douglas reading by the window, 
and ready at any moment to tend him. 

And at the small cottage by the Weald another being 
sat and watched by a sick-bed, watched with a heart that 
was growing sadder and sadder as the moments passed. 
Margery, still in the white cotton gown that she wore when 
she plighted her troth, knelt by Mary Morris's couch, try- 
ing to alleviate the pain that was racking the poor wasted 
frame. She was ignorant of her lover's illness, and she 
thought of him only with a sense of peace and happiness. 
What a long wonderful day it had been, she thought, as she 
sat beside the little window and watched the veil of night 
darken the sky — a day in which her girlhood was buried 
forever, a day in which the golden glory of all earthly hap- 
piness dawned for her! She turned from the window to 
watch the sick woman. The paroxysm of pain seemed 
past, and she was asleep. The house was quiet as a tomb. 
In another room the loving, faithful husband and com- 


72 


MARGERY DAW. 


panion was lost to trouble in slumber. Margery was 
alone: she moved softly to the window and drew back the 
curtains, and immediately the room was bathed in the 
silver radiance of the moon. 

She stood and gazed on at the dark-blue heavens, the 
glittering myriads of jeweled stars, the moonlit earth, till 
a cloud seemed to obscure her vision; and, when she gazed 
again, the stars were gone and a ruddy haze pierced by the 
sun’s golden beams illumined the sky. 

She rose softly, moved on tiptoe to the bed, then, with a 
sudden shudder, dropped on her knees beside it. While 
her eyes had been closed in sleep, while the dawn had 
spread its roseate veil over the night, a spirit had flown 
from earth — Mary Morris was dead ! 


CHAPTER IX. 

The days passed away, and Stuart Crosbie gradually re- 
covered from the effects of his fall. Despite the assurance 
from Sir Douglas that her son was doing well, Mrs. Crosbie 
satisfied herself, and summoned the village doctor, together 
with a fashionable physician from town, only to receive the 
same opinion from them, coupled with the expression that 
Stuart could not have been better treated. The young 
man passed four days in his room; but, as the pain left 
liis head, he insisted on donning his clothes and descending 
to the garden. His mind was haunted by Margery’s image 
and the thought of her sorrow; for the news of Mrs. 
Morris’s death had reached him through his servant, and he 
longed to rush away and comfort his darling. He had 
seen little of his mother during the past four days; Sir 
Douglas had constituted himself head-nurse, and Mrs. 
Crosbie, who was not quite at home in a sick-room, gave' 
way to him with a little annoyance and jealousy, though 
she would not let it be seen. Stuart had not been suffi- 
ciently well, during the short time she visited him, to speak 
about Margery — indeed, he scarcely had strength to reply 
to her inquiries — the heat was still very great, and, although 
he had an excellent constitution, he was considerably weak- 
ened by the fever and pain. But, though he could not 
collect his ideas to speak of Margery, she was never absent 
from his thoughts. The vision of her sweet blue eyes, her 


MARGERY DAW. 73 

wistful, lovely face, haunted his bedside, bringing a sense 
of peace and rest to his troubled dreams. 

At last, after four days had passed, Stuart insisted on 
leaving his room and seeking the air, urged, in fact, by a 
strong desire to see his mother and tell her of his love. 
Sir Douglas offered no opposition to this move; the severer 
effects of the fall were now passed, and, with such health 
and vigor as Stuart possessed, his arm would soon heal. 
Nevertheless it was a rather shattered likeness of the hand- 
some cousin that greeted Vane Charteris's eyes as she 
crossed the hall and saw him making slow progress down 
the stairs. 

44 Let me help you,” she said gently, moving forward at 
once, and putting out her hand. 

44 Thanks. I am rather shaky,” returned Stuart, smil- 
ing faintly. 44 How do you do. Cousin Vane? Thanks 
for all your kind messages. ” 

Yane made no reply, but helped him down the stairs, 
across the hall to the colonnade, and, pushing forward, a 
large chair, she soon made him comfortable. 

44 Thank you,” he said again; “ you are very kind. Is 
my mother anywhere about ?' 9 

4 4 She has gone to Chesterliam on some missionary busi- 
ness,” replied Yane, leaning back against one of the white 
pillars, and looking extremely pretty and graceful in her 
long soft pink gown. 44 1 don't think she knew that you 
were coming down, or I am sure she would not have 
gone.” 

Stuart sat silent, troubled and disappointed. He had 
braced himself for his interview with liis mother; he was 
longing to send some word or sign to Margery. Four 
whole long days had passed since their picnic in the wood, 
and during that time sorrow had come to her, and he had 
not ministered to her comfort. He wondered whether she 
knew of his illness, whether she realized that it was that 
illness alone that had kept him silent. He had deter- 
mined, as he rose, to speak to his mother, and then drive 
over to the Weald cottage and bring Margery back in all 
dignity to the castle, as befitted his future wife; but now 
again fate was unkind, his mother was absent— might be 
absent the whole day — and he was too weak to crawl even 
to the carriage. What could he do? He must send some 
message of comfort, some word of love to Margery. His 


74 


MARGERY DAW. 


eyes fell on his maimed hand; and, with a half groan, he 
realized that he was helpless, utterly helpless to do as he 
wished. 

Vane Charteris watched him carefully. She saw his 
brow contract and the look of trouble gather on his face. 

44 Are you in pain?” she asked gently. 

Stuart woke from his musings. 

44 My arm is a little troublesome,” he replied evasively; 
then, collecting his thoughts with an effort, he said, 44 But 
I must not be selfish. Vane. You will find it dull work 
sitting with an invalid. I feel so angry with myself for 
being so clumsy. Just fancy, Vane — this is the first time 
I have been ill in my life!” 

44 Then we must do our best to cheer you, Cousin Stu- 
art,” Vane responded, a faint color mounting to her cheeks 
at the last words. What could they mean but that this ill- 
ness kept him from her side? 44 Come,” she added bright- 
ly — 44 let me amuse you, read to you or do something. 1 
assure you. Cousin Stuart, I consider it a pleasure. I 
would do anything for you, believe me.” 

Stuart looked at her as she drew up another chair and 
sunk into it, giving him a frank affectionate glance. A 
sudden thought flashed into his mind, and then died away. 

“You look upon me as useless,” she observed, with a 
smile. 44 I mean to upset that theory altogether.” 

4 4 Useless!” echoed Stuart. 44 Indeed, Yane, you are 
quite wrong. , 5 

44 Then let me help you,” Yane said suddenly. 44 1 see 
plainly, Stuart, something is troubling you; it is not only 
the arm. Come — I shall begin to be jealous of Sir Doug- 
las, to be afraid that you will trust in no one but him. 
Will you not let me be your friend as well as your cousin?” 

Stuart half rose in his chair. 

44 My friend!” he repeated; then he sunk back again. 
44 Yes, Yane, if you will be my friend.” 

44 Friendship is notan empty term with me,” Miss Char- 
teris observed slowly. 44 Since you will let me be your 
friend, I must act as such. See ” — extending her hand — 
44 let us seal the contract — look upon me as your chum, 
your sister, as well as your friend and cousin. ” 

Stuart grasped her hand. 

44 1 will,” he said quietly; 44 for I am in urgent need of 
a friend, especially just now.” 


MARGERY DAW. 75 

He stopped and looked at her; she was watching him 
with an expression of frankness and sympathy. 

“ Vane/* he began slowly, “ I came down this morning 
on purpose to talk to my mother on a subject that is more 
than life to me. I anticipate — I know — I shall have a 
hard struggle with her, though, despite all she may say, I 
shall be firm. Will you help me in this struggle?** 

Vane rose to her feet again; her breath was coming fast, 
and a presentiment of something disagreeable passed 
through her mind. 

“ Tell me what it is, Stuart,** she said quietly, unfurling 
a large fan she carried, and holding it against the light, 
ostensibly to shield her face from the sun, in reality to 
keep it hidden from her cousin. 

“ Vane, do you remember the fourth day of your visit 
here, when I took you to see Sir Charles?** 

“ Yes,** she answered. 

“ Do you remember a girl who was sitting in a corner 
and who brought me some water for the dog? I intro- 
duced her — Margery Daw.** 

Vane caught Stuart *s eager glance, and her heart seemed 
to cease beating. 

“ Yes,** she replied, a little coldly. 

“ Vane, that is my secret; that is the girl I love better 
than any one or anything in the world — Margery Daw.** 

Vane Charteris was silent for a minute. She felt as 
though her vexation and jealousy would choke her; then 
she forced herself to be firm and calm. She dropped her 
fan and moved out of the sunlight; her face was very pale, 
but she smiled as Stuart looked at her eagerly. 

“ Well,** she said, quietly, “ and— and you want me to 
help you — how?** 

You will?** he asked, with gladness on his face. 

Vane put one hand on her chair for support. 

“ Am I not your friend?** she smiled faintly. 

“ Oh, thank you— thank you!** he cried, rising from 
his chair; but Vane gently pushed him back again. 

“ Tell me what you want,** she urged, standing at his 
side, so that he could not see her pallor and annoyance. 

“ I want you to plead with me to my mother — not for 
myself — I am strong enough ** — and Stuart drew himself 
up proudly — “ I would face the whole world. I want you 
to be a friend to Margery, as you would be to me. She 


76 


MARGERY DAW, 


may need your help; a woman such as you, Yane, can do 
much — smooth many difficulties. You can see how angry 
my mother will be. I shall not care for her anger; but 
Margery is so tender, so sweet, so proud — anger will humil- 
iate and distress her; and, if you aid her, she will scarcely 
feel it, I am sure. ” 

“ Then you have not spoken to Aunt Constance yet?” 
Yane observed, very quietly. “I am afraid you will have 
great trouble. You see, Stuart, your — your wife will be 
of low station, and your mother is proud.” 

“ We do not know what Margery's birth may be; but 
that does not affect me. I love her; she shall be my wife. 
Ah, you do not know her. Cousin Yane, or you would not 
have said that! There may be some mystery connected 
with her birth; but there is no stain on her. If ever there 
was a lady, she is one.” 

“ Your news has surprised me, Stuart, I must confess,” 
observed Miss Charfceris, moving languidly from his side 
and sinking into her chair again; “ but I shall prove my 
words. I am your friend — I will act as such. Yes; I will 
help you. ” 

Stuart's face flushed, and he leaned forward and bent 
his lips to Yane's white hand. 

“ This is indeed good of you!” he exclaimed. “ Yane, 

I can never thank you enough.” 

“ Tell me what I must do,” returned Miss Charter] s, 
unfurling her fan again. 

“Will you see Margery?” inquired Stuart, hurriedly. 

“ To-day?'' asked Yane. 

“ Yes. Ah, Yane, think — four days have gone, she has 
had a great sorrow, and I have been tied to my bed, not 
able to see her, not even to write her a word! If you would 
go to her, tell her all is going well, that you will be her 
friend, you will make me so happy.” 

“ I will go, Stuart,” Yane said, quietly; “ for your sake 
I will do all I can. No; do not thank me. Remember 
what I said just now — I would do anything for you. I 
will wait till it is a little cooler, then borrow Aunt Con- 
stance's ponies, and drive to the village.” She hesitated. 

“ Perhaps — perhaps Miss Daw may not like me?” 

“ Not like you!” cried Stuart, quickly. “ She can not 
help herself. Dear Yane, how good you are! You do not 
know what a load you have taken off my mind. I dread- 


MARGERY DAW. 


77 

ed, I feared that my poor darling would have been without 
a friend. Now she is secure. My mother loves you, and 
will be led by you. I shall speak to her the instant she re- 
turns, and then Margery can come here. Vane, I shall 
never, never forget your kindness!” 

“ You shall give me all your messages before I start,” 
Miss Charteris replied. 44 Now let me read to you a little 
— you look tired. I shall not let you talk any more. ” 

She smiled gently, and flitted away, leaving Stuart deop 
in happy thought. His spirits rose as the picture of a bliss- 
ful future floated before him, and his heart was filled with 
gratitude toward Vane. Without her help, it would have 
been a hard fight; but now his fears were lessened, for his 
darling would have one stanch, true friend. 

Sir Douglas Gerant, walking through the hall, glanced 
at the invalid lying back in the chair, his face illumined 
with the flood of happiness that thrilled him. 

44 You look better, Stuart,” he said abruptly, approach- 
ing the young man. 

4 4 1 am feeling splendid,” Stuart replied heartily. 

44 Hum! What new remedy have you tried, may I ask?” 
Sir Douglas said, dryly. 

44 A new doctor has prescribed for me,” Stuart said with 
a laugh, 44 and here she is. Cousin Vane, see how much 
good you have done me! Sir Douglas has complimented 
me with almost professional jealousy. ” 

Miss Charteris smiled, and, seating herself, opened her 
book, while Sir Douglas retraced his steps through the hall 
to the front entrance, and walked thence across the sweep 
of lawn to the lodge gates. 

44 So the wind is in that quarter!” he mused, while a 
frown contracted his brow. 44 1 am sorry and disappoint- 
ed. He is a good lad, worthy of a better woman than that 
proud, selfish' creature. Well, I am an old fool! The 
sooner I go from here the better. I shall grow too fond of 
Sholto's son if I stay much longer.” 

He walked briskly across the lawn, then turned into the 
avenue, and aq>proached the gates. The sun was beating 
down on the hot, dusty lane, the lodge-keeper’s wife was 
standing, her arms akimbo, talking to some one leaning 
wearily against the iron pillar. 

44 Good-morning, sir,” she said, courtesying. 44 May I 


78 


MARGERY DAW. 


make so bold as to ask how the young squire is this morn- 
ing?” 

“ Better — much better/ ' returned Sir Douglas. 

“ There, Margery — you hear?” — the woman turned 
again to the figure — “ better. Lor', if there ain't that 
baby awake! Excuse me, sir/' and, dropping a hasty 
..courtesy, Mrs. Clark rushed into the house. 

“You have come to inquire after the young squire?” 
Sir Douglas began, addressing the slender black-robed girl 
in kindly tones. 

The head was bent, the plain skirt was thick with dust; 
but there was about the young girl's figure an air of un- 
speakable grace, and a tress of the red -gold hair that shone 
beneath the black straw hat gleamed as a touch of won- 
drous color to the somber picture. 

Margery raised her head. 

“Yes, sir,” she replied, and then stopped, almost in 
alarm. Sir Douglas had moved forward as his eyes rested 
on her face; his color faded to a deathly whiteness, and he 
almost staggered against the gate, his eyes still fixed on 
her wondering countenance. 

“ Who are you? What is your name?” he gasped, 
rather than spoke. 

“ Margery Daw/' she answered, trembling a little with 
fear. Then seeing his head droop, she added quickly. 
“You are ill, sir; let me get you some water." 

Sir Douglas put out a feeble hand. 

“ It is nothing — a spasm — the heat," he muttered; then 
he moved slowly to the lodge door and sunk upon the bench 
outside. “ The heat,” he murmured again, “ and a ghost 
of the past!” 

Margery went into the cottage, and returned with a glass 
of water. Sir Douglas took it from her and drank it 
eagerly. 

“ I have frightened you, child,” he said abruptly. 

“ Tell me " — he pressed one hand to his side — “ you are 
called Margery Daw. Your mother — what of her?” 

“I have no mother," Margery replied; and her lip 
trembled. “I am alone.” 

“You live here — have lived here always?” went on Sir 
Douglas quickly. 

“ All my life,” she answered. 

He sunk back in the seat again. 


MARGERY DAW. 79 

“ It was but my thought,” he murmured; 44 and yet 
how like, how like!” 

44 Are you better now?” asked Margery gently. 

44 Yes, child — yes ” — he paused a little — 4 4 but I shall go 
no further. ” He rose slowly, his eyes wandering now and 
again to the girl's face. 44 But you — you look tired — what 
are you going to do?” 

44 Walk back to the village," Margery answered, with a 
sigh and a wistful glance in the direction of the Castle. 
So much sorrow had come to her since that happy day in 
Weald Wood that she seemed, indeed, faint and weary. 
She longed to see Stuart, to send him a few words; but her 
pride, her modesty, forbade it, and not until this morning 
could she summon up courage to walk to the lodge gates 
and inquire about him. She never doubted his constancy, 
nor did she look for any message from him. She knew of 
his suffering, and all her thought was for him. She turned 
away now, with a graceful inclination to Sir Douglas, and 
prepared to retrace her steps. 

44 You can not walk yet — you are not rested,” he said, 
sharply. 44 Sit down awhile. This heat is enough to kill 
you.” 

Margery shook her head. 

44 Thank you; I must go. I only came to inquire after 
— after Mr. Stuart.” 

44 He is in good hands,” Sir Douglas remarked in his 
dry, cynical way. 44 1 set his arm; but his heart requires 
another doctor, and his cousin has succeeded there. Ah, 
the village will see a wedding before long, child, unless I 
have lost my wits!” He was turning away when he sud- 
denly approached her once more. 44 1 must see you 
again,” he said, in a strange, husky voice. 44 You have 
brought back a gleam of the past that was buried, touched 
the spring of a secret that has never seen life. There is a 
strange sense of hojoe within my heart — hope that I 
thought dead, never to be revived. Child, whoever you 
may be, remember that in the future, while I live, I will 
be a friend to you, for you bear an angel's face. '' 

He turned and walked away rapidly; but Margery had 
neither heard nor understood what he meant. She was re- 
peating over and over again the words he had uttered first, 
her heart grasped too clearly and terribly the meaning — a 
wedding in the village, a wedding from the castle! Stu- 


80 


MARGERY T)A W. 


art, her Stuart, the being who held her very life, marry 
another — that fair lovely woman who had laughed her to 
scorn! The sunshine grew blood-red before her eyes, for 
one instant she reeled, and then grasped the door-post for 
support. Then gradually she awoke to the fullness of her 
pain and . humiliation. Pride was swelling in her heart : 
she seemed in that instant changed from a girl of glowing, 
living hopes to a woman who had tasted the bitterness of 
all earthly grief. She bent her head and walked steadily 
down the lane, heedless of the sun, heedless of the rough* 
stones, heedless even of madame's presence, as she dashed 
past in her carriage. She was oblivious of everything save: 
her pain and trouble, and the memory of her wasted love. 


CHAPTER X. 

“ Friendship is constant in all other things, 

Save in the office and affairs of love; 

Therefore all hearts in love use their own tongues. 

Let ev’ry eye negotiate for itself, 

And trust no agent.” 

Vane Charteris closed abruptly the book she was read- 
ing. She had commenced the quotation scarcely heeding 
what she read, but the sense dawned upon her as she 
reached the end. She colored faintly and Jooked up hur- 
riedly, then gave a sigh of relief. Soothed by the musical 
monotony of her voice, Stuart had fallen into a doze, and 
the last words had had no meaning for him. 

Vane opened her fan and sat back; her eyes were fixed 
on the lovely picture before her, but her thoughts were a 
tumult of anger, vexation, and jealousy. To find her plans 
upset, her hope of power pass from her in the very moment 
of its birth, was a bitter mortification. Her short dream 
of ambition was broken, and for what? A mere country- 
girl whose eyes had bewitched Stuart, and whose charm 
had beguiled the passing hour. A feeling of self -annoy- 
ance succeeded the vexation. Vane bit her lip and tapped 
the ground with her foot. What had she done? Prom- 
ised to befriend and assist the very woman who had pushed 
her aside. She was a fool, the proud girl told herself, not 
to have laughed Stuart's tale of love to scorn. A few cold 
words might perchance have checked the ardor of his 
flame. Now it was too late; she had given her promise. 


MARGERY DAW. 


81 


and she must meet this woman. A deeper flush spread 
over Vane's cheeks. 

She shut her fan quickly, and looked curiously at her 
sleeping cousin. A thought had suddenly come into her 
mind. After all, she had not been so foolish, for was she 
not to meet Margery alone, with no other influence to work 
against hers? Could she not so manage as to rouse, say, 
if not the demon of jealousy, at least the spirit of pride? 
The girl had pride. Vane was compelled to admit — she 
had not forgotten Margery's dignity that day in the court- 
yard, nor the graceful hauteur and ease with which she 
had moved away. Wordy warfare was not unknown to 
Miss Charteris, and it would be strange indeed if she could 
not plant some poisoned arrows in this presumptuous 
country-girl's breast. 

Stuart could not write a line — that was fortunate ; he 
would not be able to leave the castle for three or four days 
at the least — that also was fortunate. Vane felt her spirits 
rise again, and her hatred, fanned by piqued vanity and 
jealousy, grew stronger and stronger. 

Some vague thought of trouble seemed to come at that 
moment to Stuart, for, on turning her head, she met his 
open eyes fixed with an anxious look on her. 

44 You have had a delightful sleep," she said, rising, and 
moving toward him. “I am so glad!" 

Stuart passed his left hand over his brow. 

44 How rude you must think me, Vane!" he murmured. 

4 4 Your voice sent me to sleep; but I have not slumbered 
peacefully. My arm is a most annoying member. " 

44 1 feared you were suffering," Vane answered gently. 
44 Stuart, why not go back to your room again? I am sure 
it will be wiser." 

44 1 don't feel a Hercules, certainly," confessed Stuart. 
44 Who could think that four days would pull a fellow down 
so low?" He rose slowly from his chair, then added sud- 
denly, 44 But my mother! Vane! I must see her to-day. " 

44 1 am going to propose something," Vane said slowly, 
as she drew his hand through her arm. 44 Let me speak 
to Aunt Constance. Believe me, 1 shall do it far better 
than you. You would probably be hurt at what she says, 
and then you would both be angry. Now, if I speak, 
Stuart, I, being an impartial person, shall be more calm 


82 


MARGERY DAW. 


and collected. I will plead your cause well, and — don't 
think me vain — I think I shall succeed as I wish. " 

Vane drew a quick breath. Stuart did not see the transi- 
tory gleam of triumph that flashed from her eyes. 

“ I am your friend; you will trust me?" she added 
gently. 

“ Trust you? Yes, Yane; but it seems cowardly, un- 
manly, not to plead for myself." 

“ Do you want to win your mother's consent? Yes, of 
course you do? Then be assured, Stuart, that in my hands 
you will be more certain of it than if you act for yourself. 
See— here is your servant! Take my advice, rest and be 
happy, and all will go well. " 

“ Yane," began Stuart; but she stopped him. 

“ Do as I ask you," she pleaded; and with a smile of 
grateful thanks, Stuart retired to his room. 

“ All will go well — yes," mused Yane, as she turned 
back to the colonnade. “ I see the end clearly now. I 
must enlist Aunt Constance on my side, and the rest will 
follow in due course. Margery Daw,- your chance of reign- 
ing at Crosbie Castle grows smaller and smaller." 

She mounted the stairs to her room, stopping on the way 
to exchange a few words and embraces with her mother, 
who was overjoyed to see her darling child so well and 
ha 



Yane made a careful, simple toilet; she exchanged her 
long pink gown for a dainty white cambric, chose a large 
white hat and gloves of a light tan shade, and, after bid- 
ding her maid place them in readiness, descended to the 
hall just as her aunt arrived. 

Mrs. Crosbie was dismissing her groom with the ponies 
when Yane interrupted. 

“ Forgive me, auntie dear," she said lightly; (i but may 
I have the carriage this afternoon? I have an errand to 
perform in the village." 

Mrs. Crosbie looked surprised for an instant; then she 
said affably — 

“ Certainly, my dear. At what time shall Tims bring 
it round?" 

“ About five o'clock. Many thanks. Aunt Constance," 
she added, prettily, as Mrs. Crosbie gave the desired order. 

Luncheon progressed slowly and rather silently. Lady 
Charteris chattered away to the squire, and Mrs. Crosbie 


MARGERY DAW. 


83 


dilated in her proud cold way upon mission-work. Sir 
Douglas eat and spoke little, while Yane discussed the deli- 
cacies in silence. 

Several times in the course of the meal she was struck 
by the strange expression on Sir Douglas Gerant’s face; 
there was a glow of animation, a look of eagerness that 
surprised her, and she decided mentally that he was pon- 
dering some great problem, when she saw his brows darken 
and his jaw ‘set with determination. She herself had many 
momentous thoughts troubling her; but her manner was 
placidly serene. She was awaiting her opportunity to 
speak alone with Mrs. Crosbie, and thought to effect her 
purpose immediately after luncheon. 

In this however she was foiled; her aunt was claimed by 
the housekeeper on account of domestic affairs, and it was 
past four o’clock before she was liberated. 

At last Yane saw her chance. She had seated herself in 
the colonnade, which was a favorite lounge for the whole 
house in summer-time, and from here she could see all 
who came and went. To outward appearance she was ab- 
sorbed in her book; but in reality she was keenly alive to 
everything passing around, listening for the first tones of 
her aunt’s voice, and wondering during the moments of 
her watch what was causing the struggle in Sir Douglas 
Ge rant’s breast as he walked to and fro beneath the shade 
of the trees in the distance. 

Yane did not look up as she saw her aunt approach; but 
she gave Mrs. Crosbie a smile when she addressed her. 

“ So I hear, Yane, that you have been nursing Stuart, 
and with good results. I have just met Andrews, and he 
tells me his master has slept nearly all the afternoon; he 
will soon recover now, I hope.” 

“ I hope so, indeed,” said Yane, softly. 

She pushed forward a chair as she spoke; then, as her 
aunt sunk into it, she said, quietly: 

“ Aunt Constance, I want to speak to you. I said be- 
fore luncheon that I had an errand to perform in the 
village, but I did not say what that errand was. I will tell 
you now.” 

“ Do you think I look curious. Vane?” laughed Mrs. 
Crosbie, her handsome features wearing an air of satisfac- 
tion and pleasure as her gaze rested on her niece. 

“Iam going to see Margery Daw,” Yane said slowly, 


84 


MARGERY DAW. 


letting her eyes wander across the sunlit lawn, but not be- 
fore she saw a look of surprise dawn on her aunt's face. 

44 See Margery Daw!" repeated Mrs. Crosbie. 44 Why, 
Vane?" 

44 Because Stuart has asked me to go." 

44 Stuart!" breathed his mother, half rising from her 
chair. 44 What do you mean. Vane?" 

44 I mean, aunt, that Stuart loves Margery Daw, and 
says he will make her his wife. " 

For a time there was no reply from Mrs. Crosbie; and 
Vane, turning, saw a heavy frown on her handsome face. 

44 You are jesting, of course. Vane?" she said, at last. 

44 Indeed, Aunt Constance, I am not," returned Miss 
Charteris, quietly. 44 My news surprises you?" 

44 Surprises!" repeated Mrs. Crosbie. 44 I fail to under- 
stand you at all. " 

Vane rose and knelt beside her aunt. 

44 Auntie dear," she said gently, 4 4 you must not be hard 
on poor Stuart. Becollect, he has eyes, and this girl is 
beautiful. I have seen her, and love is — " 

44 Has he asked you to plead for him?" interrupted Mrs. 
Crosbie coldly. 

44 No; he told me his secret this morning, urged by I 
know not what," and Vane let her eyes wander away again. 
44 Perhaps," she went on, after a brief pause, 44 some idea 
of the warm interest I must ever have in him prompted 
him; but that I can not tell. He spoke openly to me, and 
asked me to be her friend as I was his. " 

A sneer curled Mrs. Crosbie 's lip. 

44 He. evidently thought union was strength," she re- 
marked dryly. 

44 Aunt Constance, I will not hear your anger against 
Stuart," Vane said quickly. 44 1 — I am his friend, and — " 
Her head drooped and her cheeks flushed. Then she went 
on hurriedly, 44 It is not his fault — of that I am sure; you 
must blame Margery Daw, if you blame any one . 9 9 

44 Does he expect me to receive her?" asked Mrs. Cros- 
bie quietly. 

44 1 think so. But listen to me, Aunt .Constance. I 
have not crossed Stuart, I have not refused his request, 
for I feared, in his weak state, to vex him; but he has left 
everything in my hands, and I will — " She stopped, and 
their eyes met. 


MABGEHY DAW. 


85 


44 What? 5 ' asked Mrs. Orosbie almost sharply. 

44 Save him from this if I can. 55 

The words were uttered very quietly ; and Mrs. Crosbie 
drew a quick breath of relief. 

44 Vane/ 5 she said, 44 forgive me; I was wrong to doubt 
you, even for a moment. 55 

h 44 I know what it is,” Vane went on hurriedly — 4 4 a 
glamour, a romance. Stuart has been here alone — he has 
been bewitched. But I know too what a bitter awakening 
it would be when the glamour was gone, the veil of poetry 
and romance torn down; and, for his sake, I will do it. 
Aunt Constance, do not think me bold — do not think me 
unwomanly. I can not help myself; I would do anything 
for Stuart — for — for I — love him! 55 

Vane sunk back and buried her face in her hands. Mrs. 
Crosbie put her arms around her niece and drew her to 
her shoulder. 

44 Unwomanly, Vane? 55 she said gently. 44 1 honor you. 
This is as it should be. 55 

44 Ah, you will keep my secret. Aunt Constance? He 
must not know — I would not let him know for untold gold. 
If we succeed in satisfying this girl’s ambition or avarice — 
money generally heals such wounds as hers — we must re- 
member he will be troubled perhaps for a time. I would 
not let him think my heart hungered for him; my pride 
would suffer— it would kill me. 55 

44 He shall not know, I promise, 55 Mrs. Crosbie responded, 
stroking Vane’s soft hair. 44 But what shall we do — how 
break this off? It has taken me at a disadvantage; the 
very thought seems so monstrous, I can not yet believe it. 55 

44 1 want you to humor Stuart, 55 Vane said. 44 Let him 
think that you may consent eventually; be proud and 
cold, but not unkind. The blow must come from her. 55 

44 How? 55 inquired Mrs. Crosbie, for once roused from 
her calm demeanor. 

44 She must be convinced of the uselessness of her scheme. 
I am going to her now, sent as Stuart’s, messenger. I 
think I shall pave the way at any rate. 55 

Mrs. Crosbie clasped her niece’s hand for an instant, 
and then turned aside. 

44 It is very bitter to me. Vane, to have to stoop to de- 
ceit; but it is a deep wound to my pride, that Stuart, my 
son, should so far forget his dignity as to think of such a 


86 


MARGERY DAW. 


girl for his wife. You are prompted by the best and 
noblest feelings, Vane; but I can not bring myself to sub- 
mit to this degradation even for a minute. Stuart must 
know the truth — must know how I judge him in this.” 

Vane rose hurriedly from her seat. 

4 4 1 know you are right. Aunt Constance/ ’ she responded 
quietly, though she was inwardly disturbed by Mrs. Crosbie ’s 
words; 44 but consider. Stuart is impulsive, as strong- 
willed as yourself, if you cross him in this, who knows but 
that he may do something rash — perhaps marry the girl 
without delay, and be separated from you forever? Is it 
not wiser to act cautiously, to be careful and politic? I do 
not advocate too much warmth on your part; meet Stuart 
coldly, but at the same time throw no obstacle in the way. 
Believe me, dear auntie, you will be relieved of all anxiety 
if you do this. ” 

44 But what do you propose?” asked Mrs. Crosbie, re- 
suming her seat, and Vane saw that her advice had taken 
root. 

44 We must let the separation come from her,” she an- 
swered, quickly. 44 It will not do to send the girl away — 
that would be but a stimulus to Stuart’s determination. 
No; he must be disillusioned; and that will not be a diffi- 
cult matter, I should imagine.” 

Mrs. Crrosbie was silent for a few moments; she was ir- 
ritated and displeased more than. Stuart imagined she 
would be at the news of his attachment. To her it seemed 
incredible that a Crosbie should stoop to humiliate himself 
in this way. Vane’s words fell with good effect upon her 
ears. Had her niece not been at hand to smooth matters 
with gentle tact, she would not have been able to restrain 
her anger. Something of the wisdom of the girl’s advice 
came home to her as she mused. She saw that Vane was 
urged by jealousy and pride to break off this terrible con- 
nection, but she was quite wrong in her conclusions as to 
the source of that jealousy. She jpdged it to be solely the 
outcome of love for her son, and the thought came as 
soothing balm at such a moment. Once let them dispatch 
that girl, and the marriage she had planned would take 
place. 

Vane watched her aunt intently. 

44 You will consent?” she said softly, breaking the si- 
lence. 


MARGERY DAW. 


87 


16 Yes,” Mrs. Crosbie answered abruptly. 

Vane made no immediate reply, but her he^rt thrilled 
with satisfaction. Now she must conjure up all her power 
to defeat Margery Daw. Plan after plan followed each 
other through her mind; but she could arrive at none bet- 
ter than trampling on this village rival's dignity and 
wounding her pride with darts the sting of which would 
linger longest. Before she began the fray however she 
must see Stuart, breathe in his ear that she had succeeded 
with his mother, and thus allay any suspicion he might 
entertain in the future that it was through her instrumen- 
tality that his love-dream had been broken. 

“ Yes,” said Mrs. Crosbie again, “ I will act as you 
suggest. I see plainly the wisdom of such a course. Were 
I to display the anger I feel, the consequences might be 
worse than the present state of things. At all hazards we 
must separate him from this girl!” 

Vane bent, and kissed her aunt. 

“ I am glad you see the matter as I do. Aunt Con- 
stance, I feel I am right. Stuart must be saved from this; 
and, if we work well, we shall do it. Now I must start for 
the village. Remember, we will not let your anger be 
seen.” 

“ It will be difficult, perhaps," returned Mrs. Crosbie; 
“ but there is too much at stake, and I will control my- 
self.” 

Yane moved away slowly, leaving the mother plunged in 
bitter thought, a,nd mounted the stairs to her room. She 
put on her pretty hat, smiling triumphantly at her own 
image in the mirror, and drawing on her gloves, passed 
along the corridor till she reached Stuart's door. 

She knocked softly, and whispered to the servant — 

“ Is your master awake?” . 

“ Yes, miss.” 

“ Ask him to come to the door for one minute, if he 
can. " 

Yane fastened the last button of her glove, and then 
stood waiting, a picture of grace and beauty, as Stuart 
moved slowly into the door-way. 

<c I am going now,” she said, gently; “ but, before 1 
start, I wanted to let you know that I have succeeded with 
Aunt Constance. She — ” 


88 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ She agrees?” interrupted Stuart, resting against the 
door for support. 

“ Yes; but,” continued Vane, “you must not be sur- 
prised if she is cold and hard. Of course she was totally 
unprepared for my news. I expect she will come and see 
you directly. Now will you trust me again, Stuart?” 

“Trust!” he echoed, putting out his hand. “ I have 
no words to thank you with, Vane. Margery and I owe all 
our happiness to you.” 

“I thought I would tell you; and now I must go,” 
Miss Charteris said hurriedly. “ You look pale, Stuart.”* 

“ My head aches confoundedly! I beg your pardon. 
Vane, but I am not used to pain, and I grow impatient. 
Tell Margery — But I leave it all to you. Thank you 
again and again.” 

Vane descended the stairs rapidly; and she felt as she 
seated herself in the smart pony-carriage that she had 
fought half her battle, and that, with a little care and dis- 
crimination, the victory would be easily and gracefully won. 


CHAPTER XI. 

Along the hot road, and through the village, where 
her strange dazed look awoke wonder in the women’s 
minds, and set their tongues wagging in pity, toiled Mar- 
gery. She was filled with but one thought, one terrible 
thought, which chilled her heart and roused her pride. 
Stuart Crosbie had deceived her; he had deliberately 
sought her, and — a blush dyed her cheeks at the remem- 
brance — won her love, her pure, innocent love, by false 
vows, which were laughed .to scorn perchance with his 
cousin when he had left her. She did not doubt the truth 
of the words she had just heard; they had been spoken so 
naturally, the outcome of the speaker’s knowledge. Had 
he not seen the lovers together? Was he not in the house, 
with every opportunity of judging? Now all was ex- 
plained. Stuart had made his accident a pretext for leav- 
ing her in her sorrow without word or sign. Her youth, 
her joy, her light of life was gone, and henceforth she was 
alone in the world. Her heart raised a cry against this 
man. Why had he sought her? Why had he ruthlessly 


MARGERY DAW. 


89 


broken the charm of childhood, and given her the sorrows 
of a woman? Why not have left her in her innocence, 
content in her humble life? 

During the past three months Margery had lived in an 
atmosphere of indescribable happiness. She did not stop 
to reason with herself as to whether Stuart Crosbie’s com- 
ings and goings had not an unspeakable interest for her. 
She had welcomed him as her friend, the dearest in truth 
she possessed, until the day in Weald Wood, and then what 
joy filled her being! Stuart loved her. The truth was 
revealed to her; the key to her contentment — her joyous 
spirits never saddened save when by the sick woman’s couch 
— was grasped. And now all was at an end. An inde- 
scribable pain pierced her heart; she never realized till now 
how deeply her affections were centered in him. Her 
shamed modesty resented the wound he had inflicted. She 
recalled the words she had spoken, the looks she had given, 
the kisses he had stolen from her lips, and at each thought 
she grew fainter and pressed her small hands against her 
heart to stay its tlirobbings. She could think of nothing 
but the two figures standing in Weald Wood, with the sun- 
shine overhead; and the picture brought a flush of shame 
to her face, a weight of unspeakable grief to her heart. 

She reached the cottage gate at last, and advanced 
wearily to the door. The reality of Mrs. Morris’s death 
came to her then in all its bitter force. In all the days of 
her childhood, when trouble had overtaken her, she had 
sought the gentle woman whose couch now stood blank 
and empty, and had found solace in her soothing love. 
How she had none to whom she could turn, none to bring 
her peace. 

She threw off her hat, and, suddenly flinging herself 
upon the couch, gave way to a flood of passionate tears. A 
thousand thoughts coursed through her mind. Was this 
the cross of her life? Was all that was beautiful and hap- 
py gone forever from her? Was her lot henceforth to be 
but sorrow and tears? Her spirit recoiled from the vision 
of grief. Some lines she had read a week before rose to 
her lips with an agony of despair — 

“ O God, I am so young, so young! 

I am not used to tears at night 
Instead of slumber, nor to pray’r 
With sobbing lips and hands outwrung;” 


MARGERY DAW. 


90 

and, uttering a bitter cry, Margery buried her face in her 
hands till the paroxysm was passed. 

Fatigue and sorrow had told upon her, and she rose from 
her knees looking, with her white tear-stained face, the 
ghost of the lovely girl of a week before. Her tears had 
relieved her, the dull pain at her heart was gone; but the 
passion of her grief had weakened her, and for many min- 
utes she lay back in a chair, the faint breeze stirring the 
curls on her forehead. 

Presently the sound of footsteps aroused her, and, look- 
ing up, she saw Reuben Morris enter the garden,. accom- 
panied by a young man who, despite his handsome face, 
was certainly of a plebeian stamp. The two men were 
talking earnestly; and Margery noticed with a pang the 
stoop in the sturdy shoulders, the worn face of the bereaved 
man. She had always loved him, though the link that 
bound her to the dead woman was wanting in her affection 
for him; and she forgot her own sorrow for the moment in 
thinking of his. 

She was leaning back in the shadow, and neither per- 
ceived her; but her ears caught her own name; and, too 
weary to move, she remained in her seat. 

“ Then you have not spoken to Margery yet?” she 
heard the young man question. 

“ No; but I shall do it afore night-time. I can not bear 
to think of quitting her, poor lamb ! But there’s many here 
as ’ll be good to her, and I can not stay in the place; it 
would kill me.” 

“You will be a loss, Morris,” returned the stranger. 
“ Have you sent word to Sir Hubert’s steward about go- 
ing?” 

“ I’ve just come from him. He spoke very kindly, and 
tried to persuade me to stay on; but my mind is fixed, and 
I was firm. Sir Hubert and my lady are not coming home, 
after all, lie tells me, for which I am sorry, as Margery 
would— ” 

Margery rose and moved into the door-way, holding out 
her hand to the speaker. 

“ I have heard what you have been saying. Had Reu- 
ben ” — calling him by the name she had given him when 
she was a child. 

Reuben Morris drew her toward him. 

“ My poor lass!” he said, gently. “ How worn and 


MARGERY DAW. 


91 


tired you look ! I meant to ha* spoken to you to-night, 
Margery.” 

44 Tell me now,” she urged, giving her hand to the 
young man. 

44 1 am going away, Margery,” Reuben replied. 44 1 
can not stay here. The sight of all she loved would kill 
me; so I am just going to leave it all; and I start for Aus- 
tralia at the end of the week. I have been up to Farmer 
Bright's, and Mr. Robert has walked back with me to talk 
it all over. ” 

44 Australia!” repeated Margery, drawing closer to him. 
44 So soon!” 

44 Yes, lass; I must go. I have had an offer through 
Farmer Bright to go up country to a man who wants a 
stock-driver. It isn't money that takes me, Margery. I 
must quit Hurstley, or 1 shall go mad. But we must think 
of you, lass?” 

44 1 shall be all right,” Margery said, quietly. 44 1 have 
many friends; Sir Hubert's steward will find me another 
home till Lady Coningham comes back, and — ” 

44 Yes; my mother has sent me here with a message to 
you, Margery,” Robert Bright said quickly. 44 She wants 
you to come to her for a month or so.” 

44 She is very kind.” 

44 Wilt thou go, lass?” asked Reuben, gently. 

Margery drew a quick breath. 

44 1 can not answer now,” she said; 44 to-morrow I will 
tell you, Mr. Robert. ” 

44 Oh, there is no' hurry,” Robert returned, heartily. 
44 Mother will welcome you gladly whenever you come.” 

44 Wait till to-morrow, and she'll be with you,” Reuben 
said in the young man's ear, as Margery turned in-doors 
again; then he added, in a louder tone, 44 1 must go up to 
the Weald for an hour, to see the men. Get thee some 
rest, lass.” 

44 1 will stay here, if Margery will let me,” Robert Bright 
said,* putting one foot on the door-step, and glancing into 
the room. 

Reuben had moved away down the path, and the sight 
of the girl's pale, drawn face, and listless, drooping figure, 
stirred the heart of the young farmer. For weeks past he 
had grown to watch for this girl. Her rare beauty and 
daintiness were as something heavenly in his every-day life. 


V 


92 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ You must not fret, Margery,” he said, as kindly as he 
could; sympathy, always difficult to him, was almost im- 
possible now. “ You are looking very pale and ill. ” 

The girl raised her hands, and pressed them over her 
hot eyes; then she rose with a faint smile, and drew nearer 
to the door, leaning back against it with a weary little sigh. 

“I am very tired/ ' she said wistfully, “ and the heat 
tries me.” 

“ Come to my mother, and she will nurse you; you do 
not know what a clever doctor she is. Come! Let me 
take you away with me — I will borrow a cart from some 
one in the village. Do come, Margery!” 

Margery shook her head. 

“ I can not go,” she answered slowly. “ Do not think 
me unkind; I can not go.” 

His face fell, and mere was silence between them for a 
few minutes. Her heavily fringed lids drooped over her 
eyes, and so he gazed, whilst the love raging within his 
heart urged him to take this frail sad being from sorrow 

him, and. 


Margery tremblingly withdrew her hands, and her eyes 
met his glowing ones, with horror and distress in their 
depths. She had never dreamed of this. She had liked 
Robert, thinking him a cheery, kind-hearted man; but love 
— love from him, when every pulse in her beat only for 
Stuart! It was a horror — a sacrilege! 

Robert Bright saw her slight shudder, and he tried once 
more to grasp her hands. 

“ Forgive me, Margery,” he said hurriedly. “ I would 
not have spoken so soon, but something within me forced 
me to do so. I could not bear to see you looking so pale 
and ill. You want comfort now, and so I spoke. Margery, 
I love you! My darling, don't be frightened. Perhaps I 
am rough; but I love truly — you can not know how truly, 
Margery!” 

But she had drawn back, and, with her face buried in 
her hands, had sunk into her chair again. As she felt his 
touch on her shoulder, her hands dropped, but her head 
was still lowered. 

“You must not say such words,” she said faintly. 


to happiness. Suddenly it grew too much fo: 
putting out his hands, he grasped hers tenderly 
“ Margery,” he said — “ my darling!” 


MARGERY DAW. 93 

“ Dear Mr. Robert, forgive me, but — but I can not hear 
them. I — ” 

“I am a brute to tease you,” he broke in, quickly; 
“ but, oh, Margery, I am not sane just now! I love you 
so clearly; give me one kind word.” 

“ 1 can not, I can not!” she cried. “You must not 
hope. Mr. Robert, I — ” 

“ Not hope!” he repeated, blankly. “ Not hope! Do 
you mean that, Margery?” 

“ Yes,” she answered, putting one hand to her heart to 
check its tumultuous throbbings. “ Yes; I mean it. I 
like you — you are so good; but love — ” 

The sadness of her accents touched him. 

“Then forget it all,” he said, huskily. “Love does 
not kill. I shall get over it. And yet — ” He hesitated, 
looked once more at her drooping figure, and then went on 
hurriedly: “ Don't let this stop you from going to my 
mother> if you care to do so. I have to run up to London 
to-night. We should not meet.” 

Margery rose and held out her hands to him. In an in- 
stant he had them pressed to his breast, his eyes fixed on 
her face; but there was no indication of what he sought in 
her pallid cheeks and trembling lips. He loosened his 
grasp. 

“ Then,” he said, slowly, “ there is no hope, Margery?” 

“ None,” she murmured, faintly. 

Robert Bright pressed his lips to her hands, and the 
next minute she heard his step grow fainter and fainter 
along the path, and then the click of the gate told that he 
was gone. 

Margery sat on, dazed, almost stupefied. Then gradu- 
ally memory came back to her, bringing, in all its bitter- 
ness, the old pain of the morning, with a fresh pang of 
sorrow for the man who had just left her. She felt as 
though she had been cruel to him. He had been so earnest, 
so eager, and yet there was no hope. No hope! Her heart 
echoed the dismal words. Life that had been so bright 
and beautiful was now dark and drear as winter gloom. 
She sat on, heedless of time's flight, vaguely watching the 
sun touch the trees with its afternoon gold, and sadly mus- 
ing on the dark mysterious future that stretched before 
her. At last she woke from her sad thoughts. The click 


94 


MARGERY DAW. 


of the gate had caught her ear, and she realized that the 
afternoon was nearly gone. 

“It is Dad Reuben!" she murmured; and rising, she 
dragged herself from the chair and stood, looking pale and 
ill, as a shadow fell over the door-way. 


CHAPTER XII. 

“ You are Margery Daw?" 

A cold voice fell on Margery's ear. She turned, and her 
eyes rested on Yane Charteris, looking inexpressibly lovely 
and graceful in her white toilet. She looked steadily at 
Margery, noting with secret pleasure her worn, tear- 
stained face and dusty disheveled appearance. 

“ I retract my first opinion," she said to herself; “ the 
girl is absolutely plain. " 

Some vague instinct called Margery's pride to arms. 
This woman hated her, she felt, though their eyes had met 
but once before. She drew herself up, and, resting one 
hand on her chair, faced her unwelcome guest. What had 
brought her to the cottage? Margery felt her limbs trem- 
bling; but her face showed no sign of the agony in her heart. 

“ Yes," she said steadily, “I am Margery Daw. Do 
you wish — " 

“ First, let me express my sympathy for 3 r ou in your 
loss," commenced Yane, modulating her voice to soft ac- 
cents. She saw at once that Margery regarded her as an 
enemy; but she did not intend to allow that thought to be- 
come rooted. She must clothe her darts with kindness, and 
with her sweetest words thrust her dagger into this girl's 
heart. “ None can know but those who have suffered what 
your grief must be," she finished gently. 

Margery's head drooped. Had sorrow already destroyed 
all her good impulses? She was prepared for war, and she 
met with sympathy, almost tenderness! 

“ You are very good," she faltered. 

Vane advanced into the room and pulled forward a chair. 

“ May I sit with you for awhile?" she asked. “ It is 
not good for you to be alone like this. " 

“ I like it," answered Margery, turning her lustrous 
eyes upon her guest; and, as Vane saw their beauty, her 
brows contracted, and she realized that her first judgment 
regarding this girl had been right, after all. 


MARGERY DAW. 


95 


Her mood changed. When she had considered Margery 
plain, a half-contemptuous thought had passed through 
her mind to wound yet retain her sweetness. Now she 
felt she cared not how hard she struck to relieve the jeal- 
ousy and dislike that rankled in her bosom. 

She leaned back languidly in her chair; and somehow 
the thought struck Margery that she had never seen the 
little room look so small and shabby before. The delicate 
gleam of Vane’s white garments contrasted strongly with 
her own dingy, dust-stained black dress, the placid beauty 
of Miss Charteris’s face brought back the thrill of pain to 
her heart. How different they were! Who was she, to 
compete with such a woman? She roused herself from 
her thoughts as she met Vane’s cold clear eyes watching 
her. 

“ I beg your pardon,” she said quickly, yet with un- 
speakable grace. * You have had a long drive; may I give 
you a cup of tea — or perhaps you would prefer some milk?” 

She moved toward an inner room; but Vane stopped her. 

“ Neither, thank you, ” she replied coldly — she was grow- 
ing more and more annoyed every moment. She was being 
treated with every courtesy, with all regard for etiquette, 
as though her hostess were a duchess instead of a common 
village girl! It was insupportable; she must hasten to 
break down that calm exterior which irritated her beyond 
measure. “ Neither, thank you,” she repeated; “ I shall 
not stay long. It is, as you say, a tedious drive; but my 
cousin, Stuart Crosbie, wished me to see you.” 

She bent her head to look at her flounce, but not before 
she had seen the girl’s slight frame wince and her cheeks 
grow paler. 

“ That shot went home!” she told herself. 

Margery stood immovable, her hand still grasping the 
chair. A few moments before she had thought it impossi- 
ble to suffer greater mental pain than she had endued; 
ndw she was experiencing pangs still greater, for her wound 
was being probed. Weak, faint from want of food as she 
was, she determined to be brave, to stand firm before this 
woman — her rival. 

“ I scarcely know how to begin,” continued Vane, with 
well-assumed kindness and concern. “ It is a delicate sub- 
ject; yet I could not well refuse Stuart. ” She hesitated 
for an instant, then held out her well-gloved hand. “ Miss 


96 


MARGERY DAW. 


Daw/* she said impulsively, “ will you forgive me if any- 
thing I may say in the course of our conversation should 
vex you? I would not indeed willingly cause you any 
pain.” 

Margery’s eyes were fixed on the golden-tinted trees be- 
yond the garden; she did not notice the outstretched hand. 

“ Why should you cause me pain?” she asked, in reply. 
“ There is nothing in common between you and me. ” 

Vane let her hand drop to her side; her face flushed. 
Could she never shake this girl’s control? 

“ I am glad you judge me rightly,” she responded, “ for 
I am and have been much distressed by my errand. Stuart 
has asked me. Miss* Daw, to express to you his sincere 
sympathy in the loss you have sustained by the death of 
Mrs. Morris. He begs me to tell you that he trusts you 
will apply at the castle now that you are left without a 
guardian. He has enlisted his mother’s good-will on your 
behalf, and he sends you this small sum to assist toward 
anything you may require.” 

She held out a small packet as she finished, and had the 
satisfaction of seeing Margery’s lips twitch as with sudden 
pain, and her whole frame shake with passion beneath the 
insult. 

‘‘It was his intention to write to you as far back as last 
Thursday,” went on Vane; “ but he had the misfortune to 
break his right arm, and writing was impossible; there- 
fore, as he thought you would require some explanation 
from him, he asked me to come.” 

“ I thank you,” fell from Margery’s lips in cold strained 
tones. 

“ Then I may leave this?” Vane said interrogatively, 
rising and placing the packet on the table. * e And you 
will promise to apply at the castle with respect to anything 
concerning your future? I believe, but I am not sure, 
that Mrs. Crosbie has already written to some lady about a 
situation for you as maid.” 

Margery made no answer, and Miss Charteris waited a 
few moments, and then moved to the door, feeling strange- 
ly uncomfortable, and by no means victorious. She looked 
back as she stood at the door. 

“ You have no reply?” she asked. 

“ Mr. Crosbie’s explanation requires none,” Margery 
answered, still in the same cold even tones. 


MARGERY DAW. 


97 


c< Then I will wish you good-afternoon . 99 

“ Stay!" cried Margery; and Vane turned toward her. 
“ You have forgotten your packet/' Margery added, point- 
ing to the table. 

Vane took it up without a word. Then a thought 
seemed to strike her, and she turned the money round and 
round in her hand hurriedly. 

“ Perhaps you will write to Stuart or to his mother?" 

Margery's eyes met Vane's in an unflinching gaze. 

“ Write!" she repeated, with unutterable scorn and 
pride in the word. “ There is indeed little in common be- 
tween us. Such a question deserves no answer. " 

Vane's brows contracted. She turned and walked quick- 
ly to the carriage, and, entering it, drove swiftly away. 
Her musings were not altogether pleasant during the first 
mile or so of her return journey. She had succeeded, and 
succeeded so well that she need never fear Margery Daw 
again; yet her spirit was vexed even at her victory, for, 
though she had forever separated Stuart and this girl, she 
had not lowered her rival to the dust, as she had intended. 

This thought rankled for some time; then her mind wan- 
dered to the more important matter of dealing with Stuart. 
She had no settled plan; but, as he was still so unwell, 
there would be a day or two yet in which to arrange mat- 
ters. For the present she must satisfy him with loving 
messages, and explain that Margery was too distressed by 
her grief to accompany her back to the castle. She must 
see her aunt immediately, and get her to use her influence 
in some way to have the girl sent from the village. It 
would never do to risk a meeting between Stuart and Mar- 
gery, for though she judged the girl to be too honest to say 
much, if indeed her pride would allow her to notice him at 
all, there would be sufficient to fire Stuart's anger and de- 
termination to learn the truth; and then — 

Vane's face flushed at the thought of the humiliation 
she would undergo in such a case; and she registered avow 
that she would never permit it to happen. Margery must 
go and at once. 

Margery remained standing at the door as Vane walked 
down the path. She did not move as, in a dim way, she 
saw Miss Charteris settle herself in the dainty carriage, nor 
did she stir as the ponies started briskly from the gate, 
But, as the sound of their hoofs died away in the distance, 

4 


98 


MARGERY DAW, 


she woke with a shuddering sigh to the grossness of the in- 
sults that had been offered her. Suddenly her strength 
failed, and, with a groan, she sunk back on her chair, bury- 
ing her face in her hands. The thought of her loneliness 
had been bitter, her lover's false vows had rankled in her 
breast; but the weight of Vane's humiliating words crushed 
her. It was almost greater than she could bear. 

She tried to banish all tender recollection of Stuart from 
her, to think of him only as the one man who had dark- 
ened the glory of life for her, as the man who had plucked 
the sweet blossom of her love only to trample it under foot; 
but she could not succeed. Her mind would go back to those 
happy walks, those brief moments of gladness when they 
met, till it wandered to that day in Weald Wood, when, with 
her hand clasped in his, she had sworn to love him always, 
no matter what came between them. Yes, she loved him 
— would love him to the end; though he had deceived and 
injured her, though he had treated her with such scant 
courtesy and degraded her shamefully, her love was still 
the same. 

She shook back her wealth of red-gold curls and rose to 
her feet; she was growing calmer. She reflected that she 
had yet to plan her future. She pushed the chair to the 
door- way and sunk into it. The sun was sinking behind 
the woods; the air was soft and balmy — its touch seemed 
like a kiss upon her cheek. The musical note of a bird 
twittering its “ good-night " amid the leaves, the babble 
of the distant brook, soothed her. She leaned her weary 
head against the door, and began to think. 

One idea stood out clearly — she must leave Hurstley. 
She dared not even picture to herself a future in the village 
where her eyes would rest on Stuart smiling on that cold, 
cruel woman — where she must sit down beneath a repeti- 
tion of insult that had already roused her spirit almost to 
madness. Yo, there was no other course open to her — she 
must go, and soon. Ah, if she could but rush away at 
once, and let the veil of darkness cover her humiliation! 
But whither and to whom could she go? Reuben could not 
take her with him. Mrs. Bright would welcome her for 
awhile; but she could not meet Robert — poor Robert! 

Like a flash of light in darkness came the remembrance 
of Miss Lawson, and the letter from her sister. Would it 
be too late? It was not a week ago. This must be her 


MARGERY DAW. 


99 


cliance. She rose hurriedly, her limbs trembling, and tied 
on her bonnet. She would go to Miss Lawson at once; the 
place might still be vacant; she might start perhaps in the 
morning! The thought lent her strength. She forced 
herself to eat some food, though every nerve in her body 
was quivering from excitement. 

The simple viands, the glass of milk, seemed to put new 
life into her; she left a message for Eeuben at the next cot- 
tage, and started in feverish haste for the rectory, losing 
all thought of fatigue in the rush of eager desire and hope 
that burned within her. 

Miss Lawson was seated at her window, writing, when 
her eyes fell on Margery's figure coming rapidly up the 
path. The governess noted the girl's pale cheeks, her worn 
look of pain, and her heart thrilled with sympathy. 

4 4 Well, child?" she said, as the girl came in. 

“ Miss Lawson — ” began Margery, and then her rapid 
walk told on her, and she half reeled to a chair. 

The governess rose, untied the bonnet, and held a glass 
of water to her lips. She saw at a glance that something 
was wrong; but she asked no questions. 

“ You have walked too quickly, as usual, Margery,” was 
all she observed as she turned away with the glass. 

44 1 wanted to see you,” murmured Margery; then, after 
a brief pause, she added slowly, 44 You remember what you 
said. Miss Lawson, that evening we parted — you would 
help me? I have come to claim that promise. I want — ” 

44 Tell me what you want." 

44 1 want what I refused that night — to leave Hurstley — 
go away altogether. Is it too late — oh. Miss Lawson, is it 
too late to go to that poor young lady?” 

Miss Lawson looked at her keenly. 

44 No,” she replied; 4 4 it is not too late. Strangely 
enough, I have heard from my sister again, urging me to 
persuade you. This letter I am writing is to her. I can 
tear it up . 99 

Margery felt the first thrill of pleasure she had experi- 
enced during the long dreary day. 

44 And soon — I may go soon?” she asked. 

4 4 The sooner the better — in fact, to-morrow, if you can 
be ready.” 

44 1 could be ready to-night,” Margery answered, with a 
weary sigh, pushing aside her curls. 


100 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Then I will telegraph to my sister in the morning, 
when you start. I will go with you to Ohesterham and see 
you into the train, and I think you had better get your- 
self one or two things when there; you can repay me out of 
your first quarterns salary.” 

Margery bent her lips to Miss Lawson's hand. 

44 I can never thank you sufficiently,” she whispered; 
44 you are too good to me. " 

Miss Lawson pulled away her hand with a jerk; but her 
face bore no trace of anger. 

44 Have you spoken to Reuben?” she asked. 

44 Ho; but I will at once. He leaves Hurstley himself 
at the end of the week. ” 

“ Well, I am heartily glad, child, you have decided on 
this. I think you will be happy. ” 

44 1 shall be away from here, and that will be enough,” 
was Margery's muttered thought. 

44 1 will speak to Mrs. Carr to-night. She will spare me 
to-morrow, I know,” continued Miss Lawson. 44 You 
must be ready about eight in the morning, Margery. Your 
luggage will not be much; perhaps you can arrange with 
Reuben to take it for you to the corner of the lane, and I 
will meet you there with the village fly.” 

44 Thank you,'' said Margery again. 

All was settled, and a feeling of peace stole into her 
breast. She would disappear — leave behind her everything 
that recalled her brief dream of bliss, her agony of grief. 
Stuart would be troubled no more with the sight of her sad 
face to dim his happiness. He had regarded her as a poor 
village girl, without heart, mind, or pride — a toy with 
which to while away the long, dull hours; and, as he had 
forgotten her — as she had gone from his memory — she 
would creep away in deed and in truth. She felt, as she 
sat in the twilight of the room that had seen her so often 
in her young, fresh content, that she would be satisfied if 
her name could be forgotten by Hurstley forever, if, with 
her departure, the veil of mystery that hung over her birth 
might envelop her in its folds, and she might be lost. 

Miss Lawson, turning from her writing-desk, saw the 
plaintive look on the girl's face. 

44 What is it, Margery?" she asked abruptly. 

Margery broke from her thoughts. 

44 1 was wishing,” she began, then hesitated, rose sud- 


MARGERY DAW. 


101 


denly, and went and stood beside her governess, putting 
one little hand on the elder womans. “ You are so kind, 
so thoughtful,” she said gently. “ You ask me no ques- 
tions, do not examine me as to why I have come to-night. 
I must leave Hurstley, and at once; there is a reason, but 
I can not tell you yet. Still you will believe me and trust 
me., will you not? Yes, yes, I know you will. I have only 
you to help me now in the whole world, and you will not 
fail me. '' 

“You wish me to do something more?” 

“ I want to be lost to Hurstley. I want no one but you 
to know where I have gone. I want you to keep my 
secret. ” 

Miss Lawson drew the girl into the fast-fading light, and 
scrutinized her face earnestly, almost sternly. The weary 
sadness in the beautiful eyes, the trembling lips, the wist- 
ful expression, told their tale. Miss Lawson was satisfied. 

“Yes,” she promised, “I will do as you wish — your 
secret shall be safe.” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

Immediately on her return to the castle. Vane Char- 
teris sought her aunt, and whispered to her the success of 
her mission. Mrs. Crosbie willingly agreed to drive over 
early the next morning, and see what could be done with 
respect to dispatching Margery from the village; and Vane 
went up to her room, both satisfied and triumphant. Stu- 
art's eagerness was fed by fictitious tender messages from 
Margery, which Vane uttered glibly and without the slight- 
est effort; and so the first part of her plot proved most 
successful. She learned from her aunt that the mother 
and son had met, and that Mrs. Crosbie had carried out her 
part to the letter, thereby causing Stuart no little surprise 
and pleasure. 

The news of Margery's disappearance came like a thun- 
der-clap to Vane. She had never contemplated this de- 
nouement, and was a little puzzled how next to act, until 
Mrs. Crosbie, in recounting the occurrences of her morn- 
ing's drive, incidentally mentioned that she had met Mrs. 
Bright, who was in great distress about her son. 

“ What has happened to him. Aunt Constance?” asked 
Vane, with assumed indifference. 


10 2 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ I thought I said that he was in love with this girl — • 
wished to marry her, in fact — and is so troubled at her re- 
fusal that he has determined to leave England. ” 

“ Ah!” ejaculated Vane, looking up suddenly, her cold 
blue eyes shining like stars. “ Reuben Morris has gone to 
Australia, you say?” 

“ He starts at the end of the week; he left Hurstley for 
London this morning.” 

“ And the girl is with him?” next queried Miss Char- 
teris. 

“ She must be. The cottage is shut up, the key has 
been sent to the Weald, and the neighbors tell me they saw 
both the man and the girl leave early this morning.” 

“ Could Mrs. Bright give you no clew as to where her 
son has gone, or intends to go?” 

“ None. She gave me his note to read, in which he 
merely says hesh all leave England for awhile. This girl 
has bewitched him. A marriage with him would have 
been the best she could expect — indeed, much too good for 
her,” remarked Mrs. Crosbie, coldly. “ What do you pro- 
pose to do now. Vane?” she added rising. 

“ Nothing. I have finished. Aunt Constance, the 
game is ours. Do you not see that this young man has 
gone to Australia with them?” 

Mrs. Crosbie removed her driving gloves slowly. 

(( I scarcely think that. Vane,” she replied, “ for Mar- 
gery Daw has refused to become his wife. His mother is 
highly incensed and greatly troubled, poor creature* about 
it. No, I can not think that. Vane . 99 

“ It will prove to be the truth, nevertheless, ” Miss Char- 
tens said, quietly; adding, “ and, as such, it is welcome 
as a full and complete solution to a difficult and disagree- 
able question. Poor Stuart — I am sorry for him!” 

Mrs. Crosbie glanced at her niece, leaning languidly 
against the open window, almost frail-looking in her deli- 
cate white gown, and could scarcely reconcile the strong, 
cold, relentless spirit with so lovely an exterior. For an 
instant a feeling of disgust at this girPs calm trickery and 
deceit, and at her own share in the matter, passed over her. 
Then her pride came to the rescue, and she consoled her- 
self with the thought that Stuart had been saved from dis- 
honor and trouble, and that Vane had done well. She 
bent and kissed her niece's delicate cheek. 


MARGERY DAW. 


103 


u Yes, you are right,” she said, thoughtfully. “ The 
problem is solved, and you have done it. I can not thank 
you enough. Vane.” 

“ Do not thank me at all,” the girl whispered. “ You 
know why I did it — it was my love for Stuart that prompt- 
ed me. Some day he will thank me, perhaps. But for 
the present I fear he will suffer.” 

“ With you near. Vane, that will not last,” and with an 
affectionate glance, Mrs. Crosbie left the room. 

The next clay came, and Stuart still lived in his blissful 
dreams. Then with a rough hand they were ruthlessly 
shattered. Vane was reading in the colonnade that after- 
noon, when she heard hurried steps approaching, and, on 
looking up, saw Stuart, his face as white as his tennis-coat, 
beside her. 

“ What is it, Stuart?” she asked hurriedly. 

“ Vane, something has happened so strange and yet so 
absurd that, were I not so confoundedly weak, I should 
laugh at it. My man Andrews has just told me that Mor- 
ris has left Hurstley — left early yesterday morning — for Aus- 
tralia, and Margery has gone with him. He declares it is 
true.” 

“True!” repeated Vane. “It is too absurd to credit 
for one instant. Stuart, how can you believe it?” 

“ The man is so positive,” Stuart went on, with a sigh, 
resting his left hand on a chair for support, “ that it quite 
staggered me. Of course there is some mistake; but it 
haunts me, nevertheless. Vane, will you drive me to the 
village?” he asked abruptly. “ I must make inquiries.” 

“ Willingly;” and Vane at once put down her book. 

“ How good you are!” exclaimed Stuart, trying to force 
a smile. “ You are indeed a friend.” 

With a little laugh Vane put her hand on his lips and 
flitted away, while Stuart called to a gardener and ordered 
the pony-carriage to be brought round. 

Vane was down again almost immediately, her face 
nearly as pale as her cousin’s. It was but a few minutes 
before the carriage appeared, yet to Stuart they seemed 
hours. He tried to laugh at the absurdity of the report, 
yet a presentiment of trouble possessed him. 

“ It can not be, it can not be!” Vane heard him mutter 
again and again; and then he approached her. 

“Tell me once more the messages she sent, ” he said 


104 


MARGETIY DA TV. 


hurriedly; and Vane breathed the tender falsehoods in his 
ear, touching his agitated troubled spirit with their healing 
balm. 

Sir Douglas Goran t passed through the hall just as they 
were starting. 

“ Whither away, wounded knight?” he asked lightly. 

“To the village. I shall be back soon, Douglas.” 
Then turning to his cousin, he said, “ Drive fast. Vane.” 

With a puzzled brow Sir Douglas watched them disap- 
pear — he could not understand Stuart’s apparent attach- 
ment to this selfish worldly girl — then, with a sigh, turned 
wearily in-doors. The next day was that fixed for his law- 
yer to come down from London, and he had much to occu- 
py his thoughts. He sought the squire's room, and, in a 
chat over by-gone years, lost for awhile his anxious, rest- 
less expression. 

Stuart sat silent beside his cousin as they bowled along 
the lane to the village; and Vane glanced now and again at 
his pale, pained face, wondering, when he knew the truth, 
what his opinion would be of her. 

The village reached, he broke the silence by asking Vane 
to drive straight to the little cottage by the Weald; and, 
without a word, she complied. She drew up the ponies on 
the brow of the hill; and Stuart, heedless of his aching 
arm and weakness, alighted, and walked down to the gate 
he knew so well. It was just such an afternoon as that on 
which he had parted from Margery, and the memory of 
her beauty and sweetness lent strength to his faltering 
steps and fed the eagerness and desire in his heart. He 
pushed open the gate and entered. The window-blinds 
were drawn; the door — pushed with his one able hand — de- 
fied every effort. He grew faint and cold, and leaned against 
the door-post for a moment, while the roses nodding in the 
breeze seemed to whisper to him a sense of his loss in all its 
bitterness. 

Margery was gone ! But why — and whither? He turned 
and walked down the garden, his head drooping dejectedly 
on his breast. Margery gone! What could it mean? Why 
had she left him, without a word to sign, in the very mo- 
ment of their joy and happiness? The truth did not come 
to him even then. There must be some mistake, he tried 
to cdnvince himself. A hundred different answers to the 
strange question, came to him. He closed the gate behind 


MARGERY DAW. 


105 


him and turned away. There was a man standing at the 
gate of the next cottage, and at first Stuart determined to 
pass him; but a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped 
and spoke with forced lightness. 

“Ah, Carter — lovely weather for the crops! Is this 
true that I hear about Morris?* * 

“ Good-artemoon, squire. Hope I see you better. It 
were a stiffish fall as you had. Morris, sir? What? That 
lie's gone to Australia? Ay, sir — that's true enough. " 

Stuart's left hand grasped the gate. 

“ Bather sudden, isn't it?" lie questioned, trying to 
clear his voice. 

“ Well, sir, it were rather; but you see the death of his 
missus fair knocked him over, and he made up his mind in 
a minute. " 

“ And he has gone alone?" asked Stuart, every nerve in 
his body quivering. 

“ Oh no, sir! He's took Margery with him; and right 
sorry are we to part with her, I can tell you. She were 
just a sweet lass. Have you heard that Sir Hubert and 
my lady ain't coming home, after all, sir? Perhaps that's 
why Margery went, 'cos she belongs like to her ladyship — 
don't she, sir?" 

Stuart murmured a few vague words in reply, and then 
passed on. 

“ Good-arternoon, " said Carter; and then, as he watched 
the young man mount the hill, he muttered, “ That there 
fall ain't done the young squire no good; he looks the ghost 
of hisself." 

Vane sat silent as Stuart came toward her; even her 
cold, calculating heart was touched at the sight of his dis- 
tress. He took his seat and sunk back against the cushions, 
looking deathly pale and worn. Yane gathered the reins 
together, and prepared to turn back to the castle; but Stu- 
art stopped her. 

“ Drive, to Chesterham," he said, in a quiet tone. “ I 
must find out if they went to London." 

Without a word she did as he wished, and in silence they 
sped along the lanes to the town. Yane was by no means 
comfortable during the drive, for she was beset by disagree- 
able thoughts. What if the girl, after all, had gone to 
London only to bid farewell to her adopted father? What 
more likely? Would she not have taken leave of the 


IOC 


MARGERY DAW. 


neighbors and villagers had she started for so long a jour- 
ney? What if, on their arrival at Chesterham, they came 
face to face with her? Vane grew cold and faint at the 
thought not only of the humiliation, but of such a termina- 
tion to all her scheming. She set her teeth, and her face 
grew paler as she pictured his disgust when he learned the 
truth. It was so hasty, so strange a flight, that Vane, as 
she sat absorbed in deep thought, could not but feel that 
the chances were very much against her. 

Stuart did not notice his cousin; he realized only that 
Margery was gone, his sweet love vanished. The joy of 
life for him was dead, and his heart was heavy with its 
pain. Hope now and then revived, but the vague presenti- 
ment that had hung over him since first he had learned 
the news crushed it as it was born. 

As they approached Chesterham, Vane began to trem- 
ble, and the hands grasping the reins shook with fear. 

44 Draw up for a few minutes. Vane,” Stuart said; 
4 4 here is Bright — perhaps he can tell us something. An- 
drews said it was through his instrumentality that Morris 
had gone.” 

Vane checked the ponies and leaned back, feeling quite 
unnerved from the sudden reaction. 

44 Ah, Bright, you are the very man that I want to see,” 
exclaimed Stuart, as the farmer rode up, 44 for you can 
tell me better than any one what I want to know. '' 

44 1 shall be glad to oblige you, Mr. Stuart, '' returned 
Bright, turning an anxious face to the young man. 44 Per- 
haps you've heard about my boy Robert?”, he added, full 
of his own troubles. 

44 Ho, I have not. Is anything the matter with him?” 
asked Stuart, his sympathy at once enlisted. 

44 It's nigh broke his mother's heart, sir; but he's gone 
off to Australia with Reuben Morris all of a sudden, with- 
out a word of warning. ” 

Vane felt a thrill of joy pass through her, and her spirits 
at once began to revive. 

44 Australia? Why? But they can not have gone yet — 
they must be in London. It is one thing to say you will 
start on such a voyage, and another thing to do it. It takes 
two or three days. Bright, you know, to make the neces- 
sary arrangements.” 


MARGERY DAW. 107 

The farmer looked at the young squire’s flushed eager 
face with a little surprise and much gratitude. 

“ Thank you, sir. It’s like you, Mr. Stuart, always to 
be kind; but it’s no use now, sir. Robert started last 
night; by this time they’re out of the Channel. It’s a hard 
thing to see one’s only son took from us, Mr. Stuart, and 
all along of a bit of a girl. ’ ’ 

“A girl!” echoed Stuart, shivering, he scarcely knew 
why. 

“Ay, sir — that lass of Morris’s, that nameless thing! 
She just bewitched him, has played the fool with him, said 
him 4 No, ’ when he’d have made her his wife, and now 
has took him on again, for they’ve all gone out together.” 

“ Margery!” exclaimed Stuart, in a dull, startled way, 
44 She — they have gone together?” 

44 Ay, sir — she’ve took him from us all with her fooling, 
and I make no doubt but they’ll be married afore they 
reach the other side. The mother would have welcomed 
her gladly to keep Robert at home; but she weren’t honest 
enough to do that — she must needs give herself airs like a 
fine lady, and drag my boy after her.” 

Vane saw Stuart’s jaw set, his face flush, the veins on 
his forehead swell. After a pause, he said, in a low tone: 

4 4 And you are sure of this. Bright?” 

44 I’m just back from London, sir. I’ve been down to 
the docks, and there’s no mistake; they all remembered 
the girl — her pretty face, they called it. Ah, it will be 
weary work for us, sir, waiting till Robert comes back! 
My wife’s most distraught. ” 

44 Good-bye, Bright.” . Stuart put out his hand, which 
the farmer grasped. 46 This is indeed bad news! I am 
sorry, very sorry for you. ” 

44 Thanks, Mr. Stuart.” 

Bright loosened Stuart’s hand, and with a respectful sa- 
lute to Yane, passed on, something like a tear twinkling in 
his eye. 

Vane looked straight ahead, pretending not to see the 
quick hurried way in which Stuart bent his head for a mo- 
ment. Victory was hers, she told herself— victory! Sud- 
denly Stuart looked up. 

44 Turn round. Vane, and drive home; it is all over now 
— so much the better!” 

The recklessness of his tone pleased her; it showed her 


108 


MARGERY DAW. 


that anger rankled as well as pain, that mortification filled 
his breast with despair. If this mood lasted, her work 
would not be difficult. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

‘ c Margery ! Margery V ’ 

The light of the setting sun was gilding the branches of 
the few trees standing in the center of the square garden. 
A girl was sitting in a bay-window in one of the largest 
and gloomiest of the houses in the square, apparently 
watching the sunset; but really the sunset had no charm 
for her. She was so deep in thought that the sweet tones 
coming from the further end of the room did not reach her. 

“ Margery!” 

The girl turned quickly, her musings disturbed by the 
touch of plaintive wistfulness in the last word. 

“ I beg your pardon. Lady Enid,” she said, hurriedly, 
moving from the window. 

“ I am sorry to disturb your dreams, Margery,” ob- 
served Lady Enid gently, “ but I should like to sit up for 
awhile and no one can help me like you . 9 ’ 

She smiled affectionately as she spoke, her beautiful dark 
eyes resting with pleasure on the figure of her young com- 
panion; she looked so dainty, so frail, yet so lovely, lying 
back on her cushions, that it was hard to imagine so fair 
a form was aught but perfect. It was an angePs face, 
pale and sweet, surrounded by short wavy locks of rich 
dark-brown hair, and lighted by a pair of luminous brown 
eyes. 

Margery bent quickly and took away the silken coverlet 
from the couch, then, putting her arm under the slight 
figure, raised it easily into a sitting position; thence, after 
a moment's pause, she assisted the invalid to a large lux- 
urious chair drawn close at hand. 

“ Thank you," said Lady Enid, as she reclined against 
the well-padded upright back. “ How good you are, Mar- 
gery! What should I do without you?" 

Margery smiled, and, pushing up another chair, seated 
herself near the speaker. 

Two months had passed since she left Hurstley, two long 
peaceful months; and, though she could not say she was 


MARGERY DAW. 


309 


happy, she was content. She seemed in those eight weeks 
to have put all girlishness from her; her figure, in the sim- 
ple gray gown that fitted to perfection, was already touched 
with the grace of a woman; her face, as lovely as of yore, 
bore, nevertheless, the traces of thought and the expression 
of a deep all-searching mind. She wore her red-gold tresses 
curled high on her small, head, and this gave her a digni- 
fied and maturer air. 

“ Do not talk of my goodness,” she answered lightly. 
“ What are my little efforts, compared with all the kind- 
ness you have shown me?” 

“ You can not guess, Margery, how different my life has 
been since you came to me. Now don't shake your head! 
I can never say it. often enough. Do you know, I had a 
presentiment that we should become friends the very in- 
stant Mrs. Fothergill mentioned your name? Margery 
Daw! There is a sweetness about it, a touch of romance. 
I was quite eager you should come, and I was so happy 
when the letter arrived saying that you would. I am 
afraid, dear," Lady Enid added, with a sigh, “ that some- 
times it is very lonely and dull for you here, with only a 
poor sick girl for company.” 

Margery slipped to her knees beside the slight form in 
its cardinal-colored silk wrapper. 

“ Never say that again — never,” she said — “ for I will 
not listen. ' ' 

Lady Enid smiled; and Margery bent her lips to the 
thin white hand. 

“ Are you comfortable?” she asked, gently. 

“ Quite. Now stay here, Margery, and let us chat to- 
gether. When the lamps come, I will hear you sing; but 
this is what I enjoy. I have been thinking to myself, as I 
lay on my couch, what a delight it would be to find out the 
truth about your poor young mother. How glad I should 
be if we could discover a clew!” 

“ I have given up all hope , 99 Margery responded dream- 
ily. 

“ Then it is wrong of you,” Lady Enid said reprovingly, 
while she stroked Margery's soft curls caressingly. “ I do 
not mean to do so if you do. I have thought of all sorts of 
plans; but the best of them all is to put the whole affair 
into Nugent's hands. " 


no 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ But, dear Lady Enid, your brother. Lord Court, will 
have other and more important things to employ him. ** 

“ Nugent always does anything that gives me pleasure, 
and this would be pleasure indeed. You know, Margery, 
I have written so much about you; and only in his last let- 
ter he said he was so delighted to hear that I had at last 
secured a real friend and companion . 99 

61 He is very fond of you, I know/* Margery responded 
softly. She knew that on the theme of this beloved broth- 
er Lady Enid would talk for hours, and she welcomed any 
subject that interested the poor young patient, being con- 
tent herself to listen, for it banished more painful thoughts. 

“Nugent has loved me as a father, mother, brother, all 
in one; we were left orphans so young; and oh, Margery, 
you could never fathom, how dear he is to me! When I 
was well and could run about I can remember that my 
greatest treat was to have a holiday with Nugent. Then, 
when my illness came and I was crippled for life, it was 
Nugent who brought all the happiness, all the light into 
my existence. We were alone in the world, and he treas- 
ured me as the greatest jewel till — ** Lady Enid paused. 
“ Margery,” she went on, after a brief silence, “ I dare 
say you have often wondered why Nugent does not come 
home, why he has left me here so long alone?” 

“ I have sometimes/* confessed Margery. 

“ And you have thought him unkind. Ah, I will not 
have him judged wrongly! I will tell you why he wanders 
abroad, leaves his old home and me, his little sister. Yes, 
I will tell you. ** 

“ If it pains you, do not speak of it/* broke in Margery, 
seeing the pale face contract a little. 

“ It is dead and gone, and I need grieve no more. Nu- 
gent and I never speak of the past, but it will do me good 
to open my heart to you. When, as I have told you before, 
the doctors said I should be a cripple for life, I thought my 
brothers heart would break. He grew almost ill with 
trouble, and it was not until he saw that I was resigned 
and content that he recovered. He was so good to me 
then; no one was allowed to touch me but he; he lifted 
me and carried me from my couch to the chair or to the 
bud; he regulated his whole life and career by me. But 
for my illness he would have found a prominent place in 


MARGERY DAW. 


Ill 


the Government, and doubtless have become a great man 
in the political world; but he renounced all his ambitions 
— every tiling for me. We were living then in our dear old 
home. Court Manor, of all Nugent’s possessions the one we 
most cherished. I should like to take you there, Margery, 
to show you its quaint rooms and corridors, let you lose 
yourself in the pleasaunce and gardens. I was quite happy. 
Nugent never left me; together we read, studied, sung; we 
wanted nothing more than our two selves. Well, a day 
came that ended it all. 

“ Court Manor is in Westshire, in one of the most pict- 
uresque parts, and the village of Court consists of about 
half a dozen cottages and a tiny church. There are several 
country-houses about, and the one nearest to us is a large 
rambling old place called the Gill. This has been unoccu- 
pied, although richly furnished, for many years, the owner 
living abroad; but suddenly one morning we heard that 
the Gill was to have an occupant, and a few days later that 
occupant arrived. We neither saw now heard anything of 
the new neighbor, till one afternoon, as Nugent was read- 
ing to me, the lower gate clanged, sounds were heard on 
the gravel path, and a moment later a woman on horseback 
passed the window. She asked to be admitted to me; but 
I begged Nugent to excuse me, and he received her alone. 
I questioned him closely when the visitor was gone; but he 
gave me little information about her appearance, and only 
said, in rather a constrained way, that she was a widow — 
a Mrs. Yelverton — who had taken the Gill for the hunting 
season. 

“ I dismissed her from my mind, and life went on as 
usual for a few days; then it seemed to me that Nugent 
was out’ a great deal more than formerly. He was hurried, 
almost ill at ease, during our readings; and, when I asked 
him the reason, he at last confessed that Mrs. Yelverton 
had organized regular hunting-parties at her house, and 
had begged him to join them. I submitted gladly, for I 
had long thought the life was dull for him; and so the days 
passed on slowly, and we drifted gradually apart. I saw 
Mrs. Yelverton only once, and then I was almost dazzled 
by the brilliancy of her beauty. Her coloring was so rich, 
so vivid, that others paled beside her, and her eyes, of a 
most unprepossessing tawny shade, filled me with vague 
alarm. Apparently she did not care for me, for she never 


112 


MARGERY DAW. 


repeated her visit; and I was left in peace till the end 
came. 

“ I will not linger over the rest, Margery; you can guess 
it. Nugent had grown to love her — he was bewitched by 
her beauty; and he whispered to me one evening that she 
had promised to become his wife. I tried to murmur 
words of happiness; but my heart failed me, and I could 
do nothing but look into his dear face with eyes that would 
speak my distress. Nugent left me that night, hurt at my 
coldness; but all thought of me was banished in the golden 
glory of his brief love-dream. Brief! It was but three 
months after his betrothal that his dream was shattered. ” 

Lady Enid moved restlessly in her chair, and Margery, 
noticing her agitation, pressed tenderly the hot hands that 
were clasped together. 

“ Do not go on,” she whispered; “ it pains you.” 

“ No, no! I like to tell you, dear,” replied Lady Enid 
hurriedly. “ Nugent was starting one morning to ride to 
the Gill; he had come into my room to kiss and greet me, 
and was eager to be gone, when the footman entered with 
a note. Nugent broke the seal and read it hurriedly, then, 
with a face like death, staggered to a chair. I begged in 
piteous tones that he would speak to me, tell me what had 
happened — for, alas! I could not move! — and after a 
while he thrust the note into my hands. It was from a 
man signing himself 4 Roe, ’ stating that he had heard his 
wife was about to commit bigamy with the Earl of Court, 
under the assumed name of Mrs. Yelverton, and he warned 
Nugent against her in words that were more than forcible. 
I tried to speak to my brother; but his looks checked the 
words on my lips, and he strode out of the room, mounted 
his horse, and tore like a madman to the Gill. 

44 You can picture the misery of that day, Margery. I 
tossed and moaned alone — longing for, yet dreading Nu- 
gent’s return. At last he came, and I heard the end — the 
agony in his face and voice would have wounded you to the 
quick, Margery. The woman was indeed Roe’s wife, and, 
when Nugent reached the Gill, he found everything in the 
wildest confusion. The man and wife had had an inter- 
view in which he informed her that Lord Court knew the 
truth; and this so incensed her that she drew out a revolver 
and fired at him. Fortunately the bullet missed him, and 
the woman, finding herself baffled, fled. Roe told Nugent 


MAKGEjq: DAW. 


113 


the story of his miserable life. His wife had deserted 
him, destroyed his whole career, lie described her as a 
desperate character and thoroughly abandoned. His words 
were true; for, Margery, it was discovered that she had 
gathered together all the treasures of the Gill, and would 
have eloped that very night with a man who had served 
her as groom during her stay there. 

“ Nugent seemed turned to stone when all was over; it 
almost killed me to see him wandering about listlessly, all 
happiness crushed out of his life. Then I spoke to him 
and tried to persuade him to go abroad, to leave Court 
Manor for a time. At first he would not listen to me; but, 
after awhile, the idea seemed to please him, and he went, 
leaving me alone and miserable, and I came here ostensibly 
to be under the London doctors. I have seen him only for 
a few days together in the four years that have passed 
since that time; but his letters of late have been brighter, 
and I live in the hope that he will return to me as he was 
before his life was clouded. ” 

“It is a sad story, " murmured Margery. She had 
risen, and was leaning against the broad cliimney-board. 
Trickery and deceit — who knew better than she how bitter, 
how terrible they were? Did not her heart beat in warm 
sympathy for this man, with his wounded heart, his life 
spoiled by false vows? The story brought back the agony 
of by-gone days; it paled her face and made her hands 
tremble. 

Lady Enid saw the distress she had produced, but attrib- 
uted it to the girl's sympathetic nature. 

“ Dear Margery," she said, gently, “ do not look so sad. 
You have a tender heart, dear; I am sorry I told you. " 

“I am glad," Margery murmured, “for it binds us 
closer together. What suffering there is in the world!" 

1 ‘ Sometimes it seems too great for us poor mortals; yet, 
Margery, this world is not all; we have a source of peace, a 
Comforter in our greatest trials. You know these 
lines — 

“‘I know not what the future hath 
Of marvel or surprise, 

Assured alone that life and death 
His mercy underlies. ’ ” 

“They are beautiful!" Margery answered. “But it 
is hard sometimes to believe them." 


114 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ I do not think I should have lived through my trouble 
if I had not known the truth of them. You have health — 
whilst I — 99 Lady Enid gave a little sigh. 

“I am selfish — cruelly selfish!” cried Margery, roused 
by the pathetic sound. 

Lady Enid stretched out one small hand and drew Mar- 
gery to her. 

“ You have a sorrow of your own too!” she said tender- 
ly. “ Ah, yes; I have seen — I know it! Kiss me, Mar- 
gery! Some day, dear, perhaps you will tell me what it 
is, and if I can, with all my heart I will help you. ” 

Margery knelt beside the chair for a few moments; then 
she raised her head. 

“ Some day I will,” she answered steadily; then she 
rose. 

When the footman appeared with the lamps, Margery 
turned to the piano. She had a sweet, sympathetic voice; 
but, though Miss Lawson had taught her music, Margery 
had had no singing-lessons until she came to London to be 
companion to Lady Enid Walsh. Then, hearing her one 
night, the young invalid had been charmed, and insisted 
on Margery's receiving lessons and studying under one of 
the best masters in town. She made rapid progress, for 
she loved all music well. 

“ What will you sing, Margery?” asked Lady Enid, 
leaning back, watching her young companion's graceful 
form with loving eyes. 

“ Elaine's song, the song of love and death. I have a 
new setting; it is very sweet.” 

She played a few bars; then her voice filled the room 
with melody. 

“ Sweet is true love, though given in vain, in vain. 

And sweet is death, who puts an end to pain; 

I know not which is sweeter — no, not I. 

“ Love, art thou sweet? Then hitter death must he. 

Love, thou art hitter; sweet is death to me. 

Oh, love, if death he sweeter, let me die! 

“ Sweet love that seems not made to fade away, 

Sweet death, that seems to make us loveless clay- 
I know not which is sweeter — no, not I.” 

“It is too sad!" cried Margery, with forced lightness; 
the misery of her own lost love was almost choking her. 


MARGERY 1>AW. 115 

“ It is very beautiful/* said some one standing in the 
door-way. 

Margery rose quickly, and her eyes rested on the figure 
of a tall, well-built man with a keen, dark face, a tawny- 
brown mustache hiding the mouth, and eyes of such liquid 
beauty that not even the long scar on the forehead could 
mar them. 

Lady Enid uttered a cry of delight. 

“Nugent — my brother! Oh, thank Heaven! I am so 
glad — so glad!** 

Lord Court had left the door, and was bending over the 
slight figure of his sister. Margery, with tears of sym- 
pathy in her eyes, turned away, and was leaving the room, 
when Lady Enid noticed her. 

44 Margery,** she called softly, 44 you must not go;** then 
turning to her brother, she said, 44 Nugent, this is Margery 
Haw, whom I have so often written to you about; she is 
my dear friend.** 

44 I am heartily glad to welcome you,** said Lord Court, 
extending a hand to Margery. 4 4 1 seem to know you 
already through my sister *s letters. Let me thank you in 
both our names for your kind attention to her. *' 

44 My small services merit no thanks,** Margery re- 
sponded simply. 44 1 would do all in my power for Lady 
Enid, for I love her.** 

She moved forward and kissed the lips Lady Enid up- 
held to her; there was a flush of delight on the pale face of 
the invalid, a glow of unalloyed happiness in the lovely 
brown eyes. 

44 Ah, Nugent, it is like a gleam of sunshine to see you 
again! Where have you come from?** 

44 From Italy. I paused only one day in Paris — I was 
eager to see you, my darling.** Lord Court drew up a 
chair to his sister *s side, and took her hand in his. 44 You 
are looking better, Enid,** he added. 

44 That is due to Margery then. I am so happy with 
her.** 

44 Miss Haw is a most successful physician,** the earl re- 
marked, smilingly. 

44 1 give place to a better,** Margery replied; then, with 
a sweet smile, she left the room. 

44 Is she not sweet, Nugent?** cried Lady Enid. 


MAIlGEftY t)AW. 


116 

“It is the most beautiful face I have ever seen/* the 

earl involuntarily declared. 

* ***** * 

The day succeeding the Earl of Court* s arrival was 
passed by Margery principally in her own room. She felt 
that the brother and sister had much to speak of that was 
of moment to themselves; and she shrunk with natural 
delicacy from intruding. She employed her morning in 
writing a long letter to Miss Lawson and painting some 
hand-screens for Lady Enid. 

The afternoon sun tempted her to go out, and she wan- 
dered round the garden in the square, ignorant that a pair 
of dark eyes were fixed admiringly on her slight graceful 
figure and on the wealth of red-gold hair gleaming in the 
sunlight. It was a dreary plot of ground to call a garden 
— the trees were begrimed with the smoke of the city, the 
flower-beds were faded and dull, the very earth was hard 
and cold-looking — yet all its dreariness was lost in Mar- 
gery. She paced its paths nearly every day; but she did 
not see her surroundings — her mind was too full of 
thought. In her moments of solitude her memory claimed 
her, though she was struggling hard to forget — the pain of 
her lost love was too new yet. Again and again she would 
go back to those two days standing out clear and distinct 
from all other days — the day of happiness unspeakable 
and the day when the sun had shone on the hot dusty lane 
and she had heard the words that drove that wonderful 
happiness from her tender young heart forever. She was 
content, gratefully content in her present life, for she had 
peace and affection; but happy, she whispered to herself, 
she could never be again. 

Her letters to Miss Lawson were cheerful and chatty; 
but the governess put them aside with a strange sensation 
of pity. She felt that there was some great sorrow, a sor- 
row which Margery must bear alone, that none could 
alleviate. She was gratified at the success of her pupil; 
and from her sister Mrs. Fothergill, she heard of the warm 
friendship that already existed between Lady Enid "W alsh 
and her companion. The girl’s heartfelt gratitude pleased 
and touched Miss Lawson, and she was glad to know that 
her judgment of the maid’s character had been right, that 
Margery was all she had expected. Gratitude indeed was 
the warmest feeling in Margery’s breast just now; she could 


MARGERY RAW. 


117 


not thank her governess enough for assisting her at a time 
when she most needed assistance. To have stayed at 
Hurstley would have been worse than death, she told her- 
self. As she crept away in the freshness of the morning, 
she took her farewell of all that had been dearest and best 
to her, and, with a courage born of despair, faced the un- 
known future unfalteringly. Reuben Morris had accepted 
with little surprise the news of her hasty departure; he 
knew that Miss Lawson loved the girl in her quiet way, 
and would watch over her, and her speed to be gone 
matched his own plans, for the vessel started three days 
earlier than he had expected, and there was no time to be 
lost. 

Margery traveled up to the great city, silent and sorrow- 
ful, her hand clasped in Reuben's, with Miss Lawson by 
her side. Not till she reached the docks, whither she had 
pleaded to be allowed to accompany Reuben, did she learn 
that Robert Bright too sailed away from the old country 
in the same ship, and the news was the last drop in her 
already overflowing cup of grief. She spoke a few words 
to him, urging him to stay; but, when she learned that her 
love was all that could keep him, she was silent; it was 
impossible — it could never be. So the two men went to- 
gether, and Margery stood beside Miss Lawson, the tears 
blinding her eyes as the huge vessel glided away. Then in 
silence they retraced their steps; and Margery was launched 
upon the world. Her secret was safe. Hurstley chattered 
of her as in Australia, with Reuben Morris and her lover; 
but Miss Lawson's lips were closed; she kept her promise. 


CHAPTER XV. 

Margery was walking slowly to and fro in the square 
garden, buried in her thoughts, when a firm step coming 
toward her made her raise her head, and she saw Lord 
Court, looking almost handsome and undeniably soldierly 
in the sunlight. 

“ I am sent after you. Miss Haw," he said, raising his 
hat with a smile that lit up his plain face. “ Enid is pin- 
ing for you, and thinks you will be fatigued with so much 
walking." 

Margery laughed a little silvery laugh that sounded 


118 


MARGERY RAW. 


strange in her own ears — it was long since she had been 
merry. 

“ Lady Enid does not know my capabilities/ ' she an- 
swered. “ I am a country-girl, and walking comes natu- 
rally to me; but I am quite ready to go to her.” 

Lord Court turned and kept pace beside her. 

“ I can see walking is a pleasure to you,” he remarked 
easily. “ I have been watching you. Miss Daw, and have 
been struck by the very un-English nature of your carriage, 
you bear yourself like an Andalusian. There is something 
peculiarly ungraceful in the ordinary Englishwoman's 
walk.” 

“ I think high heels have a great deal to answer for,” 
Margery responded, the color just faintly tinting her 
cream-white cheeks. “ I have been seriously alarmed at 
the shoes I have seen since I came to town; it must be al- 
most like walking on stilts.” 

“ They are for show, not use,” said the earl, smiling. 
“ What a beautiful sky! It reminds me of the sunsets we 
used to see at Court Manor. My sister, I dare say, has 
spoken to you of our old home. Miss Daw?” 

“ Lady Enid is never tired of dwelling on its beauties, 
she seems to Jove it so much. ” 

“ I have not seen it now for years/' the earl said — and 
Margery saw a shadow cross his face; “ but its memory is 
very dear. In point of beauty and value it does not com- 
pare with either Drake Park or Ilohen Castle, both Court 
possessions; to me, however, it is far more beautiful.'' He 
paused, then said abruptly, “ Miss Daw, do you think it 
would make Enid happier if she returned to the manor for 
awhile?” 

“ Yes/' Margery answered, simply; “ I am sure of it. 
She is so good, so sweet, that she never complains; but I 
know she is pining for a glimpse of the country, and I 
think she would grow stronger out of London — she has 
been in town so long. ” 

“ What a selfish brute I have been!” muttered the earl 
to himself. “ Poor child — poor Enid! Thank you. Miss 
Daw,” he added quickly. “ I will speak to her at once, 
and make arrangements to start whenever she likes. But 
you — you do not object to leave London?” 

“ I?” questioned the girl. “No, Lord Court, I have 
no objection; it matters little to me where I am.'' 


MARGERY DAW. 


119 


He cast a quick earnest glance at her. 

“ You are young to say that.” 

Margery flushed ; she had spoken unreflectingly, and she 
regretted the words as soon as they were uttered. 

“And wrong/ ’ she said, with forced lightness. “I 
shall enjoy the change; and anything that makes Lady 
Enid happy is a great pleasure to me. ” 

. Lord Court Wc*s silent; but he read her assumed manner 
rightly. He knew Margery’s history well; still he felt 
instinctively it was not her orphan state alone that had 
caused such a remark. 

Margery was unaware of his covert glances; she picked 
two or three leaves from the trees as she passed and ar- 
ranged them in a cluster with an artistic touch. 

“You are an artist. Miss Daw,” the earl observed, as 
they approached the gates. 

“ I paint a little, but only flowers,” she returned. 

“ I used the brush a few years ago,” Lord Court said; 
“ but I do nothing now, and, with the exception of a few 
Egyptian sketches, I have no drawings of my travels. ” 

He opened the gate as he spoke; then, suddenly meeting 
the full gaze of her wondrous eyes, he said almost involun- 
tarily: 

“ I think I could paint you, if you would allow me.” 

“ I will sit to you most willingly,” Margery returned, 
smiling; “ but only on the condition that you make a picture 
of Lady Enid.” 

“It is a bargain!” he cried; and Margery felt a thrill 
of pleasure at his words. 

By this promise she knew she would bring happiness to 
the young sister — happiness because her beloved Nugent 
would be near her. 

“ Let us go and tell her at once,” she said, turning her 
lovely face, flushed with pleasure, to him. “ Ah, you will 
see my words were right last night! You will be a better 
physician than I could ever hope to be.” 

The earl made no reply, but followed her across to the 
house. At the door of Lady Enid’s room Margery paused. 

“ It will gladden her more coming from you, ’’she whis- 
pered; and she hurried away. 

Lord Court watched her disappear, then entered the 
room. 


120 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Have you found her, Nugent?” asked Lady Enid, 
fixing her brown eyes upon him. 

“ Yes,” he answered, drawing a chair to her couch and 
looking at her pale face and fragile form with a dull pain 
at his heart. “ We have been talking together, Enid, and 
we have made two arrangements which we hope will please 
you. The first is for us all to go down to Court Manor as 
soon as ever you like. The second is for me to paint your 
portrait and your friend's — Margery Daw. Does that 
please you, my darling?” 

Lady Enid raised her hands to her eyes — her face was 
hidden. She made no reply; and her brother leaned over 
her and kissed her tenderly. 

“ My sweet Enid!” he murmured. “ My poor little 
one. How selfish I have been!" 

Lady Enid let her hands drop. 

“ Selfish — you selfish, Nugent? How can you say so, 
when by this very proposal you sacrifice your own wishes? 
No, my dear brother; I can not accept it. " 

“ But it is my wish, Enid. It will be like a glimpse of 
peace to see the old place; and, back in her own nest, my 
darling will grow stronger, please Heaven.” 

Lady Enid's face had grown a shade paler, her lips were 
trembling. 

“ Nugent,'' she said slowly, “ I will go; but, first, will 
you do something for me?” 

“ Anything on earth!” 

“ Then, dear, I wish you to visit Drake Park and Hohen 
before we start for the manor. It is our duty indeed, Nu- 
gent. Think. You have not been n 



so long that the tenants do not even 


so long 
do so?” 


“ But I thought you would like to go straight to the 
manor,'' the earl said, slowly. 

“ I would rather wait and go with you, dear, and then 
we can commence the portraits without further delay. I 
shall be so glad to have a picture of my sweet Margery. 
Ah, here she is! What plots have you two conspirators 
been hatching? Come, confess!” 

“ Do they not please you?” inquired Margery, kneeling 
for an instant beside her. 

“ Please me? Nothing on earth could give me greater 


MARGERY DAW. 


121 


pleasure; but I want Nugent to postpone the journey till his 
return from the country . 99 

The earl moved to the window, and was standing with 
folded arms. His face wore a puzzled, almost distressed 
expression. 

44 My sister. Miss Daw,” he said quietly, “ is desirous I 
should visit my other tenants before starting for Court 
Manor; and I am satisfied she is right. I have not been 
down for years; but it will not take me long, and then — ” 

44 And then,” finished Lady Enid, with a feeble smile — 
44 then good-bye to dreary, gloomy, dusty London, if — if 
Doctor Eothergill consents.” 

44 Enid,” Lord Court said, going to his sister's side, 
44 what do you mean? Has Eothergill been frightening 
you? Ah, 1 knew there was something that male you 
hesitate! Speak, tell me at once!” 

44 Nugent, my darling ” — and Lady Enid imprisoned 
his strong hand in her two frail ones — - 4 4 forgive me! 1 
have been tempted to tell you, and then the thought of 
buoying you up only for bitter disappointment has stopped 
me. This is it, my darling.” There was a little catch in 
her breath which he did not notice in his anxiety, but which 
did not escape Margery, who had risen, and was standing 
at a little distance, with hands clasped tightly together. 
44 Eor some time past Doctor Eothergill has been hopeful 
that by undergoing certain treatment I shall be cured — 
that is, partially cured — walk by myself, be no longer the 
great baby I am now; and — and I have agreed to try it, 
for I do long for health, to be as others are. Now, Nu- 
gent, you know my secret — you have wormed it out of me. 
I did not mean to tell you; but I have been compelled. So 
you see, darling, I can not leave London while I am under 
his care. In a little while I shall know whether the treat- 
ment is successful or not. I have kept this even from Mar- 
gery.” 

Her cheeks were flushed, a light of eagerness was in her 
eyes. Margery could not see for tears; she slipped her 
hand into the tiny hot one, and whispered the words that 
Lord Court spoke; then, deeply moved, she turned and 
left the room. 


122 


MARGERY DAW. 


CHAPTER XYI. 

Two days passed, and the earl announced his intention 
of going down to his tenants at the end of the week. They 
were two peaceful, pleasant days, and Margery found much 
to occupy her. She would have remained in her own room 
during her spare moments if Lady Enid would have al- 
lowed it; but with pretty tyranny the invalid refused any 
such concession, and so Margery brought her painting into 
the boudoir. Lady Enid seemed never tired of watching her 
as she sat bending over her canvas, and every now and 
then she would touch her brother gently, and by a sign call 
his attention to the girl's beauty. Margery liked Lord 
Court. She was pleased at the graceful deference he 
showed her, and happy because of the joy his presence 
brought to Lady Enid. He was a most agreeable compan- 
ion; his wanderings about the world had provided him with 
a fund of anecdote and information; and Margery listened 
delightedly to his voice, though her heart would sink at 
times at the memory of that other who had spoken of the 
same scenes. She found that the earl was an artist of more 
than ordinary ability, and was gratef ul to him for his many 
hints, entering into long discussions with a zest that de- 
lighted Lady Enid. The earl too fomid it a strange pleas- 
ure to listen to her, and he would start a conversation 
simply for the sake of hearing her speak, and to watch the 
ever-changing expression of her sweet face. 

He gave himself up now entirely to his sister; his fears 
were banished, her own hopefulness kindled his, and the 
delicate flush that appeared on her white cheeks led him to 
believe that her strength was returning. Margery too 
shared his eager delight in Lady Enid's recovery; yet amid 
it all she could not repress a vague feeling of discomfort 
sometimes, and alarm would rise unbidden when she 
looked up quickly and saw the unspeakable sadness in Lady 
Enid's face; but she kept her fears to herself, and indeed 
dismissed them as fancies when she heard the brother and 
sister laughing and chatting together. 

Lord Court was absent a week; but he sent dispatches daily 
to town, with hampers of flowers and fruit. The two girls 


MARGERY DAW. 


123 


were ardent lovers of flowers, and Margery would flit 
about arranging them till the room was scarcely recog- 
nizable. 

On the day of the earl's return she began the pleasant 
task of decorating; and, when all the vases were filled, she 
turned to Lady Enid with the great clusters that remained 
in her hand. 

44 Shall I send these up to Lady Merivall, Enid?" she 
asked — by Lady Enid's special desire she discarded the title 
when speaking to her friend and mistress. 

44 Aunt Hannah!" Lady Enid laughed. 44 Oh, she can 
not bear flowers, Margery! She would declare that we 
wished to kill her if we put them in her room!" 

Margery buried her face in the flowers. 

44 IIow I pity her!" she said slowly. 4 4 To me they are 
as life itself. Yet, do you know, Enid, sometimes the 
thought comes to me that we are cruel when we cut the 
blossoms off so ruthlessly — they die so soon." 

She gazed admiringly at a small delicate white rose as 
she spoke; it looked so desolate without its setting of green 
leaves. A curious fancy seized her — was not her life like 
this poor flower's, separated from all she loved? 

44 She is thinking of her grief," thought the invalid girl. 
44 You are too tender, darling," she said gently;- 44 flowers 
are sent for our use; and, after all, we die as they do." 
She paused a little, and then went on, 44 1 will tell you 
where to put those if you mil. Nugent loves flowers as 
we do. Ask Morgan to give you some glasses, and arrange 
them on his table, will you?" 

44 Of course! Why did I not think of his before?" and, 
gathering them in her hands, Margery went swiftly from 
the room. 

Lady Enid lay back very still as she disappeared, a 
strange yearning look on her face. 

44 If that only might be," she murmured to herself, 44 1 
could go in happiness, I think. " She looked toward the 
door, and her eyes suddenly gleamed with joy. 44 Nu- 
gent," she cried, 44 you have come back! How good of you 
to be so early!" 

Lord Court bent and kissed her. 

44 Where is Miss Daw? You are alone. " 

Lady Enid saw his eager glance. 

44 She has just left me to put some flowers in your room. 


124 


MARGERY DAW. 


Oh, Nugent, how sweet they are! I breathe the country 
air again in .their scent. ” 

“ As you will breathe it in reality, darling, soon. What 
does Foth6rgill say?” 

“I am progressing slowly/ ' Lady Enid replied, in a 
quiet voice, though the flush on her cheeks deepened; 4 4 it 
must be another week yet, Nugent, before I can think of 
starting. ' ' 

“ A week will soon pass,” the earl responded tenderly, 
not noticing her labored manner — “a week, and then, 
Enid, my darling, we shall return to the home where we 
were so happy, to the haunts you loved! My life shall 
henceforth be spent for you and with you, as of old . 99 

Lady Enid put her hand on her brother's. 

“You do not dread it?" she whispered. 

“ All dread is gone — it is buried in the past,” he an- 
swered firmly, looking into her eyes. 

Lady Enid sighed, and Margery entered the room as he 
released her hand. 

“You have been putting some flowers in my room. Miss 
Daw; that is kind of you.” 

“ I did not know you liked flowers. Lord Court,” she 
answered, with the grave smile that never brought any 
light to her eyes. “ I will remember in future." 

“I like all that is beautiful,” he said, involuntarily; 
then, turning to his sister — “ Enid, let us celebrate my re- 
turn. You have not driven out for weeks. Can you bear 
the fatigue to-day?” 

“ Yes,” replied Lady Enid, with a gleam of delight. 
“I shall enjoy it.” 

“ It is a lovely day," went on the earl. “ I long to drag 
you from this gloomy room; a drive will do you good, I 
am sure.” 

“ Yes; I know it will.” 

Margery knelt for an instant beside the couch. 

“ Are you quite sure?” she whispered. “Will Doctor 
Fothergill — 99 

“ He has urged me to go many times,” Lady Enid inter- 
rupted, kissing her; “ so run and put on your hat. ” 

Margery went with a light heart, and in a few minutes 
followed the slight figure on its straight padded board to 
the luxurious barouche. Lady Enid's couch was placed in 
the carriage, for she was compelled to retain her recumbent 


MARGERY DAW. 125 

position; and, with a heart full of pity, Margery took her 
seat beside the invalid. 

London was very full, considering that the shooting 
season had commenced, and many people came to the side 
of the carriage either to bow or to offer their greetings to 
Lady Enid. To all of these acquaintances Margery was 
introduced as “ my dear friend,” and her heart swelled 
with gratitude to Lady Enid for her delicacy and considera- 
tion. Lord Court, though he was busy talking, lost none 
of the varying expressions that passed across her face. 
Gradually it was becoming a pleasure to him to be near this 
girl whom his sister loved; he recognized the rare beauty 
of her nature, her inborn refinement, and her pride and 
grace won from him attentions that many another woman 
had sighed for in vain. Margery was always gratified by 
his courtesy, though his growing admiration was lost on 
her. She sat back in the carriage listening to the con- 
versation, speaking only when addressed. 

The earl had judged rightly — the drive seemed to have 
brought new life to his sister. She chatted gayly, breath- 
ing the soft air with avidity, and his hope rose higher and 
higher as he gazed at her animated face. They had turned 
into the park, which was filled with carriages and eques- 
trians; and Margery, who had been only once before in this 
part of London, grew interested in watching the groups of 
people* passing to and fro. 

Lord Court's eyes wandered from his sister's face to 
hers, and a sense of peace such as he had never felt in the 
past four years crept into his heart. Lady Enid saw his 
eyes turned on Margery, and she smiled to herself a happy 
little smile; she felt that these two would be friends, and 
the thought pleased her. Just as they were turning to 
leave the park, a gentleman rode up to the carriage and 
entered into conversation with the earl and Lady Enid. 
Margery sat back, and let her eyes and thoughts wander. 
She watched, with a smile on her face, two children strug- 
gling for a doll, heedless of the voice of their nurse; then 
suddenly the smile faded, and her heart seemed to stand 
still. Beneath the trees to their right a party of riders was 
just moving on — a woman between two men, followed by 
two grooms. Margery's cheeks blanched, and her hands 
trembled; she knew that graceful form only too well. It 
was Vane Charteris— -Vane Charteris, with the smile of 


12C) 


MARGERY DAW. 


content, the glow of perfect happiness on her lovely face; 
and beside her rode Stuart Crosbie. Margery had looked 
but once, yet she saw only too well. Vane had turned with 
a smile to her lover; and he, bending close to her, was mur- 
muring words the tenderness of which might have been 
guessed by the earnest gaze that accompanied them. 

Margery drew back in her seat as they passed; it was a 
moment of bitter agony. She had thought herself schooled 
to meet sorrow, that she was able to be firm, that she had 
cast out all love and despair from her heart and filled it 
with a desire for utter forgetfulness. Now she saw herself 
in her weakness. The very sight of Vane Charteris brought 
back the humiliation she had suffered; while the sight of 
Stuart, the man who had deceived her, insulted her, 
wrecked her life at its very beginning, brought back the 
tumultuous joy of that evening in Weald Wood, the never- 
ending sorrow of her loss. Ah, she might be as brave as 
she would, away; but a glimpse of his face had broken down 
all the barriers that pride had been setting up during these 
past weeks, and left her as weak as before! 

Turning to speak to her. Lord Court saw her pallor and 
look of pain. 

4 4 Something is troubling her,” he thought. “ She is 
too young, too fair to look so distressed. " Ignoring her 
apparent faintness, he gave his orders to the footman, and 
they were driven home. 

Margery all that evening was "quiet, almost depressed. 
She knew she might have remained in her own room, had 
she so wished; but she shrunk from being left alone with 
her thoughts, from the confession of her own weakness; 
and she sat with Lady Enid, who, full of the pleasure of 
her drive, chatted and laughed gayly, not noticing her 
friend's changed manner. But, though it escaped her, it 
was quickly detected by her brother; and the pale face of 
the young girl, the unspeakable depth of sadness in her 
eyes, touched him with deep sympathy. He came easily 
and gracefully to her rescue. He took the book from her 
hand when Lady Enid asked her to read, with a playful 
remark as to Miss Daw's needle-work progressing slowly, 
and he alone saw the slender figure leaning back wearily 
on the wide window-ledge, her work forgotten in her 
thoughts. He exerted himself to chat to his sister, and 
then, knowing that her evening was never complete with- 


MARGERY DAW. 


127 


out music, seated liimself at the piano and filled the room 
with the melody of a rich baritone voice. 

Margery listened awhile; then the sighing sadness of the 
music proved too much for her, and, stooping to kiss Lady 
Enid, she retired to her room. 

The night-hours passed slowly and heavily; she could not 
sleep. Her mind was haunted by the vision of two forms 
with the radiance of a great happiness in their eyes. Was 
London then so small that she must be tortured by their 
faces wherever she went? And her secret — would not that 
be discovered? They had not seen her to-day; but who 
could tell whether she might not meet them again? She 
felt low-spirited and disheartened for a time, then grew 
gradually easier in her mind. In a week jjerhaps they 
would leave London, and down at Court Manor she would 
have peace, if not happiness. Comforted by this thought, 
she fell asleep just as the gray dawn was breaking, her 
troubles forgotten for the time in dreams. 

For the next three days life went on as it had before 
Lord Court arrived. Margery took her solitary walks in 
the square garden, secure from all fears there, and Lady 
Enid declared herself much better. As the end of the 
week drew near, Margery felt her heart lighten. Only a 
few hours more and she would be safe for a long time! 

“ Have you your canvas and all the necessaries for our 
pictures, Nugent?” asked Lady Enid, on the afternoon of 
the day before that fixed for their departure. 

“ I have one or two little commissions to execute this 
afternoon/* returned the earl; “ then I shall be quite pre- 
pared for work. ** 

“ Let us go with you; it is a lovely day.** 

“ But the fatigue!** he said warningly. “Remember, 
Enid, there is the journey to-morrow. ** 

“I should enjoy it,** Lady Enid murmured, a little 
plaintively. 

“ Then come by all means, my darling.** 

With a beating heart Margery put on her hat; fain would 
she have stayed at home, but she could think of no excuse, 
and she did not like to spoil Lady Enid*s pleasure. She 
shrunk from the idea of seeing those two faces again, and 
the chance of being recognized. 

The earl was waiting for her at the foot on the stairs. 

“Enid has sent me for you. Miss Haw,** he said hur- 


M A TIGER Y DAW. 


128 

riedly; “ but I was most anxious to speak to you for a 
minute alone. Tell me honestly, do you think she wishes 
this journey to-morrow? Sometimes I fancy I see a hope- 
less longing in her eyes, and it almost makes my heart 
ache/* 

“ Indeed, Lord Court / 5 Margery answered earnestly, 
“lam sure Lady Enid lives in the very thought of going 
to her old home. She has talked of it so often. Please do 
not distress yourself; I have seen that look in her eyes too, 
but I do not think it means more than a longing to be 
well . 55 

She put out her hand timidly, and he raised it to his 
lips. 

“Thank you , 55 he said, gently; “you always comfort 
me. Miss Daw . 55 

Their eyes met for an instant, and he saw again the deep 
sadness in hers. 

“ Enid is waiting , 55 he said; “ let us go to the carriage . 55 

This time they drove through the streets, and Margery 
forced herself to talk and smile, though she was trembling 
with fear. If her smile died away suddenly, and if her 
voice had not the true ring, it was only the earl who re- 
marked it. Lady Enid, lying back on her couch, was too 
interested in all that was passing to see the effort and notice 
the constraint. 

At last all the commissions were executed, and it was 
with a sigh of relief that Margery found, the carriage was 
rolling homeward. 

“ Shall I ever learn her sorrow ? 55 the earl wondered, as 
they bowled along, noting her sweet face. “ It is only one 
who has suffered as I have who looks as she does — yet that 
is impossible in her young life . 55 

Margery met his earnest, questioning gaze; thecolcr rose 
to her cheeks and she was about to make some remark, 
when suddenly, to her amazement, the earl leaned forward 
and pulled her on one side; then followed a sharp shock to 
the carriage. Dimly she saw a huge impending mass above 
her, and heard voices raised in alarm; then her senses 
cleared, and she saw the earl standing in the street, the 
footman beside him, and a crowd of people hurrying for- 
ward. 

“ There is no damage , 55 cried the earl, getting into the 


MARGERY daw. 


129 

carriage again — “ at least, none to us. You are not hurt?” 
His tone was intensely eager. 

“No, no,-” Margery answered, quickly; “but Lady 
Enid — ' ' 

“ Is all right. She told me so herself, with a smile, just 
this minute.” 

Margery bent over the couch. 

“ Then she deceived you,” she said hurriedly, looking 
up with blanched cheeks; “ for she has fainted.” 


CHAPTER XVII. 

The clock on the mantel-piece struck eight in clear sil- 
very chimes; Margery paused in her walk to and fro in the 
boudoir, and looked at it. Three hours since they had re- 
turned, and carried Enid's poor fragile form to the bed- 
room, her face as white as death itself. The agony of 
Margery's suspense was unbearable; she had been alone, 
listening for, yet, she scarcely knew why, dreading to hear 
Doctor Fothergill's step on the stair. All thought of self 
was banished now; she could think only of the sweet angel- 
woman who had been a spirit of goodness to her, and of the 
look of speechless grief on the earl's face as he carried his 
sister into the house. Down-stairs, in another room, a 
man was sitting with head bent forward as with age. It 
was the Earl of Court. He had returned from his sister's 
couch, after placing her there, and, dropping into the 
chair beside the fire, had never moved during the three 
weary hours that passed. He heard the doctor slowly de- 
scend the stairs; yet he, like Margery, dared not approach 
him because of the unspeakable dread that was in his heart, 
and he heard the street door close with a slight shudder at 
the fears that possessed him. 

It was not till the door was gently opened that he roused 
himself from his trance of despair; then, raising his head, 
he saw Margery, pale and agitated, standing before him. 

“ Enid wishes for you," she said faintly. 

He started to his feet in an instant. 

“You have seen her?'' he murmured. 

“ No,” Margery shook her head. “ I will come after 
you; she has asked for us both, and — ” She stopped — her 
voice failed her. 


130 


MARGERY RAW. 


The earl pressed his hands over his eyes, and followed 
her from the room. 

Lady Enid was lying back on her pillows, very pale and 
faint. She could not move her hand as her brother en- 
tered; but he saw the look of pleasure that illumined her 
face. He bent low over her, and heard her voice come 
only in a whisper, and that with a painful effort. 

“ You are better, Enid?” he murmured, hoarsely. 
“ Oh, say you are better, my darling!” 

“ I shall be soon, Nugent,” she answered. “ Have you 
seen Doctor Fothergill?” 

He shook his head and he thought he saw a look of pain 
gather on her face. 

“ 1 am sorry,” she said, faintly, “ for I must tell you 
myself. ” 

“ Tell me what, Enid?” he asked, his voice almost in- 
audible in its huskiness. 

She did not answer at once, but, after awhile she raised 
her weak hand and passed it over his brow. 

“ Nugent,” she faltered, her tones a little clearer, “I 
want you to give me a promise, dear. ” 

“ Need you ask for one!” he answered, pressing her 
hand to his lips, then clasping it firmly within his own. 

“ I want 3'0u to be a friend to Margery; she has no one, 
and I love her. Nugent, my darling, do not look at me 
like that — there is no hope. Oh, don't cry, my own dear 
brother! Listen! I have deceived you ” — her voice grew 
fainter — “ I have been growing weaker and weaker every 
day. This is the finish. ” 

The earl had sunk upon his knees; his face was almost 
hidden. Lady Enid's hand, wandering over his hair, 
touched his eyes — they were wet with tears. 

“ Don't, don't! Oh, Nugent, you break my heart!” 

He was up again in an instant, his grief repressed by an 
iron will. 

“ You promise?” she said eagerly. 

“ I promise all you ask,” he answered. “ Oh, why can 
not I die instead of you?” 

“ You must live and keep your promise,' ' Lady Enid 
whispered; then she closed her eyes for a minute; and, in 
despair, he beckoned to the maid to moisten the pale lips. 

The heavy lashes were raised, and the girl's eyes smiled 
again. 


MARGERY DAW. 


131 


“ I have one great, great wish,” she murmured faintly. 

4 4 It is granted. What would I not do for you, Enid?” 

44 Make Margery Daw your wife!” 

The earl started, and his color deepened. 

44 If she consents,” he answered, after a moment's pause, 
44 1 will.” 

44 She is so good— ah, Nugent, you do not knowhow 
good! I have grown to love her as my sister. She will 
watch over you for my sake when — I am gone!” 

She lay back silent for a minute, then turned her eyes on 
her maid. 

44 Ask Miss Daw to come now. ” 

The earl moved away and buried his face in his folded 
arms on the mantel-piece. Margery came in softly, then, 
with one deep sigh, crouched beside the bed and put her 
lips to the thin hands. 

44 Margery,” whispered Lady Enid — 44 my dear Mar- 
gery!” 

44 You are better — oh, tell me you are better, Enid!” 
faltered Margery. 

44 Darling, listen to me. I am dying. My poor Mar- 
gery, be brave. I have known it a long time; the shock 
to-day has — has — only hastened it. But I want you to do 
something for me. Margery, do not promise till you have 
heard what it is. Nugent!” The earl came to her with 
slow steps. 44 You shall not be left alone, Margery, when 
I am gone. Margery, you have loved me — you know all; 
I want you to be my brother's wife!” 

Margery drew back for an instant, and stood with her 
hands pressed against her bosom, her mind distracted, the 
words just uttered ringing in her ears. 

Could she link herself to one whom she could never love, 
though she deeply respected him? Could she give herself 
to another while she believed herself pledged to Stuart 
Crosbie forever? Her eyes met the sweet brown ones, 
already dim with pain, turned wistfully upon her. A flood 
of pity filled her; she dropped upon her knees, and 
breathed : 

44 1 will!” 

Lady Enid waited a moment; then, grasping Margery's 
hand, she held it toward the earl, and across her bed the 
compact was sealed. 


132 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ There is one — thing more, " she whispered, with diffi- 
culty; “ the — end may be soon. I could die— happier if 
— if you were made man — and wife now. - ” 

The earl was silent; but Margery raised her head, her 
cheeks as pale as those lying on the pillow, 

u It shall be so,” she said, clearly; “ be comforted. ” 

The earl stooped, and pressed his lips to his sister's; a 
sigh burst from his overcharged heart. 

“ As Margery says, I say; we will be married here in the 
morning. I will arrange it.” 

Then, without another word, he passed out of the room. 

Margery hardly moved all through the long terrible 
night that followed. Lady Enid held her hand within 
her own, and, fearful of disturbing her few moments of 
slumber, Margery did not stir, though she grew faint and 
stiff as the hours passed. What were her thoughts during 
the interval? She could not have told; but the dominant 
feeling was one of bitter grief, an agony of regret and sor- 
row as she looked at the pale young face with the seal of 
death already on it. The promise she had given did not 
come home to her in those silent moments; she was striv- 
ing to gauge the depths of Enid's great and noble nature. 
How brave, how strong she had been, with the knowledge 
that she was doomed ever present in her breast! What 
courage had filled that poor fragile frame, what an infinity 
of love that feebly beating heart! Ah, what a lesson was it 
to the girl crouched in that sick-room to bury self and 
live for others! 

Toward early dawn — the girl was worn out with fatigue 
and sorrow — Margery's eyes closed; and, with her wealth 
of red-gold curls spread over the coverlet, she slumbered 
peacefully. Lady Enid woke early. She was faint, even 
weaker than the night had left her; yet, as she saw the 
daylight creep into the room, her heart almost leaped with 
joy — her mind was at rest. Her eyes lingered with tender- 
ness on Margery's tired head; and, as the first rays of the 
morning sun touched the luxuriant tresses of hair, making 
them as a ruddy-golden halo, she murmured, “ Nugent 
will be content by and by,” and lay back, waiting till her 
maid or Margery should awake. 

The sun was well up before Margery raised her heavily 
fringed eyelids; but, once aroused, she was angry with 
herselffor sleeping. 


MARGERY DAW. 


133 


“ My sweet Margery,” whispered Lady Enid, “ my poor 
tired darling!” 

“ Forgive me,” murmured Margery. 

“Forgive you! You were worn out. Listen, darling! 
Nugent will be here soon. Go to your room, and put on 
a white gown.” She smiled faintly. “ I — I wish it; you 
shall have no bad omens at your wedding, Margery. Pau- 
line, attend mademoiselle.” 

Margery hesitated, and then obeyed silently. 

“ Heaven give me strength!” prayed Enid, as she felt 
herself growing faint. “ But this one thing, this marriage 
over, and I shall die content.” 

Margery went to her room, and listlessly allowed the 
maid to wave her hair and adjust the simple white cambric 
dress; but her hands were trembling and her senses numb. 
A wedding! It seemed like a dream. The prayer-book 
the maid handed her recalled her to the reality; and with 
faltering steps she went back to the dying woman. 

Three men were in the room as she entered, but she was 
scarcely conscious of their presence. She went straight to 
Lady Enid, and sat down beside her, her hand clasped in 
hers, her head bowed. 

Then she felt herself raised to her feet, she saw Dr. 
Fothergill bend and put a vial to Enid’s rigid lips, and the 
next minute a solemn voice sounded through the room, 
and the marriage-service began. Margery felt her hand 
clasped in a firm hold; she uttered her responses in a voice 
that sounded far away, but her eyes never left the pale 
face lying back on the pillows, with a gleam of joy in the 
sweet eyes. 

The ceremony was over, the blessing was spoken, and 
together Lord Court and his wife knelt beside Enid’s bed 
to catch the faint whispers that fell from her pallid lips; 
they saw her eyes gaze into theirs with a glow of heavenly 
radiance, they saw her hand move feebly toward them, 
they seemed to hear the prayer uttered for their happiness; 
and then the dying girl’s eyelids drooped, a fluttering sigh 
escaped her lips, her head fell forward, and — Margery 
knew no more. 

Nugent, Earl of Court, saw the servants bear his wife 
from the room; but he remained kneeling by his sister’s 
body, gazing on the calm, marble-like face, the still form 
of her he had loved so well. 


134 


MARGERY DAW. 


CHAPTER XVHI. 

Vane Charteris was astonished beyond words when 
she found that the assertion she had made regarding Mar- 
gery's voyage to Australia in company with Robert Bright 
and her so-called father was absolutely confirmed by fact. 
Nothing could have been more opportune, no more satis- 
factory denouement to the whole affair could have taken 
place had she arranged it herself. It had needed only jeal- 
ousy to finish what she had begun ; and its poison now 
rankled in Stuart Crosbie's heart. He was stunned, al- 
most overwhelmed by Margery's apparent treachery and 
heartlessness. He did not know, he had never fathomed 
till now how greatly he had loved, what a flood of passion 
had overtaken him. Margery had been the sun of his ex- 
istence, and she was gone — worse than gone — she was faith- 
less! 

Vaguely he repeated the words over and over again, as 
he sat listlessly in a chair looking out over the fair land- 
scape, but seeing it not. Faithless! The girl who had 
kindled the glow of all earthly bliss, the girl who had 
seemed a very angel of purity and beauty, was false! While 
he held her clasped in his arms and breathed his earnest sa- 
cred vows of love, she was false! As she smiled in radiant 
tenderness and whispered back her own, she was false! 
Through it all she had been false! It was inconceivable; 
it was maddening! 

A fortnight wore away, but Stuart's mood did not alter; 
he sat silent and morbid, trying to understand it all, to get 
at the truth. Vane grew a little troubled at his manner — 
she had not imagined the wound would have been so deep. 
Her own shallow nature could not comprehend the depths, 
the intensity, the passion of love. To her it had appeared 
that Stuart would of course be angry. As a proud man, 
that was but natural, and she had expected to see him defi- 
ant, hard, reckless. This strange silence, this quiet misery 
amazed and annoyed her. But she was outwardly at her 
best all this time. She never spoke to her cousin respect- 
ing their former confidences. She made him feel rather 
than know the depths of her womanly sympathy, thus 


MARGERY RAW. 


135 


making her worldly tact appear as innate refinement and 
tender delicacy. She moved about as in harmony with his 
gloomy thoughts; her laughter never jarred; her voice 
often soothed him; and, last, but not least, she warded off 
any attacks from Mrs. Crosbie, whose brow contracted in 
many an ominous frown because of what she termed her 
son's folly and want of dignity. 

It was tedious work sometimes, and Vane often grew 
vexed and weary; but this gloom could not last, she told 
herself; there would come a day when Stuart would rouse 
himself and cast aside all thought of his dead love, tram- 
pling on the memories of it as on a vile and worthless thing. 
She must not fail now, seeing that she had succeeded so 
well hitherto. But a little patience, and she would win — 
she must win, not only for her love's sake, but for her am- 
bition. News had reached her of the marriage of one of 
her most detested rivals, a girl younger than herself. She 
could not face the world again without some weapon in her 
hand to crush the woman she hated and bring back her lost 
power. It was as Stuart Crosbie 's wife that she determined 
her triumph should come. He bore no title; but his name 
was as prominent as any in the land, his wealth would be 
untold, and, as chdtelaine of Crosbie Castle and Beecham 
Park, her social position would be undeniable. Even Mrs. 
Crosbie did not guess the fire that burned beneath Vane's 
calm exterior; but her desire for the marriage was certain- 
ly as great in one way as her niece's. Lady Charteris, who 
had by this time recovered from her surprise at her daugh- 
ter's strange freak in staying so long at the castle, saw 
nothing, but chattered and slumbered away her days plac- 
idly enough, content to know that Vane was happy. 

Sir Douglas Gerant had disappeared as strangely and as 
suddenly as he had arrived. Two days after the eventful 
drive to Chesterham he took his departure, greatly to Miss 
Charteris 's and Mrs. Crosbie' s satisfaction. There was 
something in his dry cynical manner which made them 
singularly uncomfortable, and their strict ideas of etiquette 
were greatly disturbed by his many unorthodox acts. Stu- 
art at any other time would have regretted his cousin's de- 
parture; but now it made but little impression on him, 
and, while he exerted himself to bid him farewell, his mind 
was with his trouble, and as Sir Douglas walked away, he 
gave himself up again to his unhappy thoughts. 


136 


MARGERY DAW. 


A fortnight passed uneventfully, and then Sir Douglas 
reappeared as suddenly as he had left. Mrs. Crosbie met 
him with profuse but insincere words of welcome. She 
was just enough to recognize how much he had done for 
Stuart. Sir Douglas put aside all her gracious speeches. 

“ It is only a flying visit, ” he said tersely. “I want to 
have a few words with Stuart. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I am so sorry you will not stay," Mrs. Crosbie 
responded. “ I had hoped you had come for the shooting; 
Sholto expects a few guns down. We should have had a 
party for the twelfth of August but for Stuart’s accident. 
Can I not persuade you?" 

“ I should yield to your persuasion, cousin," answered 
Sir Douglas, with an old-fashioned bow and a gleam of 
merriment in his keen gray eyes — he knew right well he 
was no favorite with madame — “ but that unfortunately 
time and tide wait for no man, and I sail for the anti- 
podes at the end of this week. " 

“ The antipodes!” cried Mrs. Crosbie; and she would 
have questioned him further but that he ended the inter- 
view by walking away in search of Stuart. 

He found the young man strolling listlessly about the 
grounds attended by all his canine pets. There was no 
doubt as to the sincerity of the pleasure on Stuart’s face 
when he saw his cousin; but Sir Douglas was quick to no- 
tice the worn look and the gloom that almost immediately 
settled again on his features. 

“ How is the arm?” he asked quietly. 

“ Mending rapidly,” Stuart answered. “ I shall have 
it out of the splints in another fortnight. ’’ 

“ Don’t hurry it,” said Sir Douglas, as he turned and 
strolled beside the young man; “ it was a nasty fracture, 
you know. ’’ 

They walked on in silence until they reached a quiet 
spot, and then Sir Douglas halted. 

“Stuart,” he said, “I have come down here on pur- 
pose to see you. I want you to give me a promise.” 

“ It is already given,” Stuart answered, roused from him- 
self for awhile, and stretching out his hand. 

“You know that I have made you my heir, that I have 
willed all I possess to you with certain conditions. ’ ’ 

“ Yes, I know," Stuart answered, his face flushing a lit- 


MARGERY DAW. 


137 


tie. 44 Do not think me ungrateful if I say I wish it were 
not so. I do not want your property; I — ■ 

44 1 am aware of that/' interrupted Sir Douglas dryly. 
44 If you had wanted it, you would not have had it. But 
it is not of that I want to speak; it is of the conditions. 
They are more to me than any fortune you could name. ” 

“ Whatever they are, I accept them willingly, with all 
my heart, and, if it be in my power, they shall be fulfilled/ ' 

Stuart spoke firmly, his eyes as steadfast as his words. 

44 Thank you, Stuart,” responded Sir Douglas quietly. 
44 I felt — I knew you would answer me so.” He paused a 
little, then went on slowly. 44 I leave England again at 
the end of the week on a search that has lasted my life- 
time — hopeless, alas, in the years that are gone, but touched 
now with the blessedness of hope ! Yes, thank Heaven, I 
have a clew!” 

Stuart looked in wonder at his cousin's face; it was il- 
lumined with color, and there was an unusual glow in the 
eyes. 

44 I can not bring myself to speak to you now, Stuart, on 
this subject; but if I am successful, I will open my heart 
to you — if not, and anything should happen to me, this 
letter ” — taking an envelope from an inner pocket — 44 will 
tell you all — will give you the secret of my life. Guard it 
well, and, if the time should come soon, swear to do what 
I have asked you in it. ” 

44 1 swear," said Stuart, solemnly, his hand closing over 
the letter. 

44 How I start with a lighter heart than I have had for 
years. The days will pass quickly, and, when I reach Aus- 
tralia, who knows — ” 

44 Australia!” broke in Stuart, his face drawn and pale. 1 
44 You are going td Australia?” 

fc< I said at the end of this week. What is it, Stuart?” 

44 Oh, that I were free to go with you!” muttered Stuart. 

Like a flame of fire, the word 44 Australia 99 had set the 
passion of jealousy running through his veins, calling up 
the dormant longing for revenge that had found a resting- 
place in his heart. Could he not leave all that distressed 
and oppressed him, and rush away to that distant land, to 
face him who had stolen the most precious jewel of his life, 
to bring shame on her who had deceived and tricked him? 
The picture of Margery's loveliness rose before him and 


138 


MARGERY DAW. 


made his heart beat wildly with the rush of wrath and love 
that came over him. 

“ Stuart/ ' Sir Douglas said quietly, almost tenderly, “ I 
would ask you to go with me gladly but for one thing — you 
are not free — your father needs you. He could not live 
without you; go from him, and he will sink before your re- 
turn. He is not strong; this summer, he has told me many 
times, has tried him terribly, and your accident was a 
shock. " 

“ Yes, you are right/* responded Stuart gloomily, after 
a moment's pause. “ I will stay here. And yet it is hard. " 

Sir Douglas did not catch the last words. 

“ I have always loved Sholto,'' he said, “ and to rob him 
of you would be cruel. . Ho, Stuart, your place is here. " 

They moved on and approached the house; but before 
they entered Sir Douglas stretched out his hand. 

“ Heaven bless you, lad!" he said tenderly. “ We may 
never meet again. May you have all the happiness and 
sunshine in your life that a man such as you ought to ex- 
pect ! Remember your promi se. " 

“ I have sworn, and I will keep it." 

They returned to the castle; and, soon after that. Sir 
Douglas Gerant left for London. 

His cousin's visit broke the spell of Stuart's morbid in- 
activity. The monotonous quiet of Hurstley seemed sud- 
denly to appall him. He could no longer sit and nurse 
himself; he was restless, almost feverish in his movements. 
He went out early in the morning and did not return till 
the day was spent; and, though he tried to banish every 
memory of his brief dream from his mind. Vane detected 
the nervous restlessness still in his face. In her heart she 
rejoiced at these signs of awakening;^, they were but the 
forerunners of that proud contemptuous mood which she 
longed to see reveal itself. Life was dull at the castle; 
but, though she yawned and was inexpressibly bored, she 
did not intend to give way; and at last she had the satis- 
faction of feeling that success was hers when her aunt an- 
nounced that Stuart wished the whole party to leave Cros- 
bie and go to London. 

If he remained much longer at Hurstley, Stuart said to 
himself, the monotony and inactivity would drive him mad. 
So, to Yane's and his mother's delight, he proposed a fort- 
night's stay in town, a round of theaters, and such gayeties 


MARGERY DAW. 139 

as a slack season offered, and then a return to the castle 
with a large party for the shooting. 

It was then that Vane began to reap her reward. Stuart 
seemed to have remembered all she had done for him, all 
her thoughtfulness, gentleness, womanly kindness; and it 
was to her he turned iii a frank friendly fashion which at 
once delighted her and deceived her by its ring of appar- 
ently genuine forgetfulness. 

To London they all went, save the squire, and in leaving 
him, Stuart thought of his absent cousin's words; but it 
was only for a fortnight, and then he would be back again, 
brave in forced courage, steady in his pride, to walk over 
the very ground, wherein his whole love lay buried. 

It was a delightful time to Yane; she rode, walked, 
went sight-seeing, with Stuart always in close attendance, 
and, though few of her acquaintances were in town, she 
noticed with pleasure that some of her “dear friends" 
were passing through London on their way from the Con- 
tinent to the country, and she left them to draw their own 
conclusions as to her relationship with Stuart Crosbie. As 
for Stuart, he lived for the moment in a whirl of forced ex- 
citement and pleasure. He determined with reckless swift- 
ness to give way to sorrow no more; he buried the memory 
of Margery, and set his foot, as he thought, firmly on the 
grave of his love; he even thrust recollection from him; 
he laughed, rode, chatted with Vane, and gradually her 
influence made itself felt. If, in the night, visions of his 
lost love floated through his dreams, pride in the morning, 
dispelled his weakness by recalling her falseness; and he 
turned to Yane as a woman whom, though he could never 
love, he could respect and trust. To the world his devotion 
had but one name, that of a suitor; and, heedless of peo- 
ple's tongues, heedless of Yane's triumphant eyes, Stuart 
went on his way, living for a time in a dream of reckless 
excitement that would soon pass and leave him plunged in 
as deep an abyss of despair as before. 

It was in one of these moments that Margery had seen 
him beneath the trees, bending his handsome head to gaze 
into Yane's eyes. The action meant nothing to him — 
Vane was his cousin, his confidante, his friend. Had his 
gaze but wandered to the carriage drawn beside the rails, 
and rested on the sweet face pallid and drawn by the agony 
of pain that had come to her, he would have forgotten his 


140 


MARGERY DAW. 


cousin’s existence, and rushed, with a madness of joy, a 
delirium of happiness, to Margery’s side. But Margery was 
unseen; the cousins paced by slowly, and the image of that 
face, that form with the right arm still hung in a sling, 
those eager eyes, was graven on her memory in characters 
the clearness of which tortured her and the steadfastness of 
which nothing could remove. 


CHAPTER XIX. 

** Man’s love is like the restless waves, 

Ever at rise and fall; 

The only love a woman craves 
It must be all in all. 

Ask me no more if I regret — 

You need not care to know; 

“A woman’s heart does not forget — 

Bid me good-bye, and go. 

You do not love me — no; 

Bid me good-bye, and go. 

Good-bye, good-bye — ’tis better so; 

Bid me good-bye, and go.” 

Margery moved dreamily; she opened her eyes. A 
flood of glorious sunshine filled the room. She felt strange- 
ly weak; her hands were almost numb, her head was heavy; 
she could do nothing but lie back and rest — rest, and listen 
to the sound of a rich voice singing, somewhat near, a 
plaintive sighing song — 

“ You do not love me — no; 

Bid me good-bye, and go. 

Good-bye, good-bye — ’tis better so; 

Bid me good-bye, and go.” 

Margery moved again. This time her eyes wandered 
round the room; it was strange to her. Where was she? 
What place was this?” 

While a look of perplexity and pain was dawning on her 
pure pale face, some one bent over her. 

4 4 Miladi is better?” 

44 Where am I?” asked Margery faintly. 

44 Miladi has been ill,” replied the quiet soothing voice — 
4 4 very ill. She is by the sea now. Does not miladi hear 
the waves?” 


MARGERY DAW. 


1.41 


A faint rippling sound was borne in on the silence, 
mingling with the song without. 

“The sea!” murmured Margery vaguely. “Where? 
Am I dreaming?” 

“ Miladi does not forget me? I am Pauline/ ’ 

“ Pauline!” repeated the girl, striving to dispel the dense 
cloud that shrouded her memory. 

“ Yes, miladi. I dressed you for your marriage that 
sad, sad morning.” Pauline spoke slowly. “ Can miladi 
not remember now?” she added softly. 

Margery looked at her strangely and intently. 

“ I can remember nothing — I seem to be in a dream.” 

She put up her left hand to push back the clusters of her 
hair, and as it fell again to the silken coverlet she gazed at 
it intently. It looked frail and white, and on the third 
finger was a ring — a plain wide band of gold. 

The maid touched her hand. 

“It is miladi’s wedding-ring,” she said, divining the 
thoughts of wonder and the speculation that were filling 
Margery’s mind. 

“ My wedding-ring!” echoed the girl, still wonderingly. 
“ Am I married then?” 

Pauline looked at her mistress in alarm. Had the fever 
really touched her brain? She almost feared it. 

“Miladi will remember,” she whispered tenderly. 
“ She was married one morning so early, by Lady Enid’s 
death-bed. Miladi has been ill— delirious since — but she is 
better now. Miladi must think — must try to remember 
now for milord’s sake. ” 

“ By Lady Enid’s death-bed!” whispered Margery; then 
the cloud vanished suddenly from her memory, and, with 
bitter pain, she remembered all. 

Pauline stood by, distressed, yet relieved, as her mistress 
put her two thin hands to her face and the great tears 
rolled through the slender fingers — the weeping might 
agitate for a time, but it would do good in the end. For 
three weeks Margery had lain between life and death. Her 
overwrought mind and body had given way suddenly be- 
neath the shock of Lady Enid’s death; she had been so 
tired, so shaken by her former trouble and despair, that 
the excitement of her marriage, the supreme agony when 
she realized that the sweet friend and sister had passed 
away, were too much for her, and she sunk beneath the 


U2 


MARGERY DAW. 


weight. Nugent, Earl of Court, sat and watched beside 
her couch. He saw the struggle that took place between 
the terrible fever and Margery's delicate yet healthy con- 
stitution, not daring to give words to his fears. She knew 
nothing during those days — her lustrous eyes met his un- 
meaningly. She was his wife, the treasured bequest of his 
dying sister; but all his devotion, his tenderness, the great- 
ness of his new passion for her, was unknown — her mind 
was a blank. 

When the fever passed away she grew better in body, but 
the vacant look lingered in her eyes, and her memory had 
not returned. The doctors spoke hopefulty, and ordered 
a change of air, and so they removed her to the sea-side, 
and waited for the moment to come when the dark cloud 
which obscured her mind would lift, and she would be the 
Margery of old. For a week there was no improvement, 
but on this day nature seemed to wake from its trance, 
and, when Pauline spoke, as she had spoken many times 
before, the veil fell, and Margery's memory came back to 
her. 

Presently the tears stopped, her hands fell to her side, 
and she raised herself feebly into a sitting position. She 
was not in bed, but, dressed in a loose white-silk gown, 
resting on a couch. She looked round, critically taking 
in the costly appointments of the room. Pauline watched 
her curiously, and noted each sign of pleasure that flitted 
across the lovely pale face. 

“ It is beautiful," Margery declared after a time; “ and 
the sea is there " — pointing to the large bay-window 
through which the sunlight streamed. “ I will look at it, 
Pauline; I have never seen the sea.'’' 

The maid passed her arm round the slender figure, and 
guided it to the window, pushing forward a large luxurious 
chair as they reached it, into which Margery sunk, with a 
sigh of fatigue. She closed her eyes for one minute, then 
opened them on a picture of such new, such wondrous 
startling beauty that her pulses thrilled with the moment- 
ary delight. 

It was the sea — 

“ The sea, the sea, the open sea — 

The blue, the fresh, the ever free!” 

Everything was forgotten in that moment's supreme 
pleasure. She had conjured up visions of the ocean, fed 


MARGERY DAW. 


14.3 


by pictures she had seen ; but no canvas could ever portray 
the boundless dignity, the majesty, the rippling beauty of 
the sea as it appeared to Margery on that October after- 
noon. 

Margery gazed and gazed, her wonderment growing 
greater as she looked, and her mind flew back to the after- 
noon when Stuart had spoken of the sea, dwelling on its 
beauties so lovingly that she thought she had realized it in 
all its grandeur and majesty. Now she knew that not 
even his tongue could convey a true idea of its mightiness. 
She sat very silent, watching the rolling waves; the song 
without had ceased, and Pauline had retired to the further 
end of the room. Suddenly the weird sadness of the sea's 
music struck a chord in her heart. It seemed to be sing- 
ing a dirge, and her mind woke again to its load of sor- 
row. For the first time the real facts of her marriage 
came home to her. A look of despair gathered in her 
eyes, her thin white hands were pressed to her lips. Enid, 
dear sweet Enid, was gone! The brief friendship, strong 
as though it had been cemented by years, was broken, and 
she was alone, alone with her husband, a man whom she 
had pitied, respected, liked, but a man whom she could 
never love, to whom she must ever wear a mask, for love 
was dead within her to all but one, and for that one it 
lived as strongly as of yore. What had she done? Bound 
herself for life, given a sacred vow, while every pulse in 
her thrilled for that other man, despite his cruelty and his 
humiliating insults! Oh, that she had spoken openly to 
Lady Enid ! This marriage then would never have taken 
place. But her silence had produced this result; the sis- 
ter's tenderness, the friend's affection, had, prompted the 
dead woman to speak her wish, and at such a moment 
Margery had yielded. She did not regret her promise to 
Enid. The thought that her marriage had soothed the 
dying came almost as a gleam of pleasure. It was for 
her husband's sake she sorrowed, and for her own. Could 
aught but misery follow such a hasty union? Would not 
they bo’th repent in bitterness and despair? 

Margery rose slowly from her seat, feeling weak and 
wretched. The spirit of the sea, entrancing at first, had 
brought with it a host of sad thoughts that destroyed its 
beauty and made her shudder at its music. 

Pauline had retired quietly from the room. Margery did 


144 


MARGERY DAW. 


not notice her absence; and, as she regained her feet and 
put one hand on the chair to steady herself, she said faint- 
ly, with half a smile — 

“ You must help me, Pauline. I am very foolish; 
but — ” 

A hand clasped hers — not Pauline’s, but a firm strong 
hand. It was her husband’s. 

Lord Court drew the slender white-robed figure gently 
to his arms. 

“ It is not Pauline, my darling; it is I. Nay, do not 
look so frightened! You are still very weak, my poor 
one! Pauline came to bring me the good news that you 
had recovered your memory, and I hastened to you at once 
—my wife — my sweet one!” 

Margery rested quietly in his arms — she had not strength 
to move — but a tumult of thoughts surged in her brain. 
Now she must speak, must tell this man of her weakness, 
of her love. It must be done now in the beginning of 
their married life; she must not delay; it would be so 
difficult afterward. And he must know the truth — know 
that for Enid’s sake she had uttered words that should 
never have been spoken, that would be as emptiness in her 
eyes. 

“I wish to speak,” she murmured faintly; but the 
words did not reach her husband’s ears. She was nervous- 
ly excited, and her strength was already spent. 

The earl drew her still closer to his breast. 

“ Let me hold you in my arms for one instant, my 
wife,” he said tenderly and gravely; “it comes as such a 
blessed happiness after weeks of misery and suspense that 
I have endured. Margery, my darling, ours was a strange 
marriage; but it was tenderly blessed by the smile of one 
we both loved. Ah, Enid could read the heart well! She 
saw into the very depths of mine; she knew that its sterile 
ground had brought forth a pure, a holy plant — my love 
for you! She saw the misery of the past banished from 
my life by the tender influence of that love, and she 
realized that life might once more be made bright and 
beautiful to me — that earthly trust, faith and happiness 
might yet be mine; and so she gave you, darling, to me, to 
fill the void her flight would make, to lead me by your 
sweetness, your tenderness, to things better and purer, 
like your own pure self. ” 


MARGERY daw. 


145 


A pang of remorse pierced Margery’s heart. Could she 
speak, and at one word blast this new-found happiness, 
these Heaven-inspired hopes? No, she had not the cour- 
age. She must bury the past. Henceforth Margery Haw, 
with all that appertained to her, was banished, and Mar- 
gery, Countess of Court, lived in her stead, strong in the 
determination to keep her vows and prove herself worthy 
of the devotion of herhusband. 

She raised her pale lovely face to his, and a steadfast 
light shone in her great blue eye£ 

“ By Heaven’s help,” she responded faintly yet clearly, 
“ I will do it!” 

Lord Court bent his head, and pressed his lips to hers; 
then, lifting her tenderly, he bore her to the couch, and 
laid her once more on the pillows. 

“You are a very frail Margery,” he said kindly, con- 
templating her as she lay back wearily; “ but now you 
must make great efforts to get well, and you shall soon go 
out and feel the sea-breezes on your cheeks — perhaps they 
will bring a little color to them. ” 

“ I am always pale,” she whispered in reply. “ How 
long have I been ill?” 

“ A month now. Ah, I had almost begun to despair — 
you were so long recovering. ” 

“ And — and Enid?” 

“Is at her old home at last,” said the earl, in a con- 
strained voice. “We carried her down and laid her in 
the old church-yard. She always wished to buried there. ” 

“ I must go down and see the grave,” murmured Mar- 
gery. 

“ When you are able, you shall, my darling. Court 
Manor is waiting for its mistress. Ah, Margery, little did < 
I think years ago that I should so gladly return to my 
home, all pain and bitterness rooted out of my heart for- 
ever, and in their place the sweet fragrance of love and 
happiness, brought me by a spirit of peace and purity — my 
wife !’ ’ 

Margery moved her head restlessly on the silken pillow ; 
his deep tenderness and devotion touched her wounded 
heart with healing gentleness, yet her burden was none the 
less, for she could never repay such great love, she could 
never give him what he gave her. Her pride had suffered 
such humiliation beneath the cold cruelty of Yane Char- 


146 


MARGERY DAW. 


teris' tongue that her heart might have thrilled now with 
satisfaction in the knowledge that she was — in the world's 
eyes — a great person — Countess of Court, a peeress of the 
realm. But there was no pride in her heart. Her hus- 
band's tender words only brought back with a sudden rush 
the memory of the great chasm between them. She drew 
her hand slowly from his, with the touch of his lips still 
clinging to it. 

44 5ft>u know," she whispered, meeting his gaze with her 
great starlike eyes — 44 you know — Enid told you that I am 
quite alone in the world — a waif, a stray?" 

4 4 Yes, I know it, my darling. " 

44 And you care for me just the same?" 

44 1 love you," he answered, smiling; 44 1 loved you from 
the very first. Yes, Enid told me your sad story, and it 
only binds you still closer to me; henceforth I must be 
mother, father, brother, sister, husband, all in one. Ho 
not hold a thought in your heart that such a circumstance 
could make any difference. Remember — 

“ ‘ For unto every lord his own lady is 

All ladies and all beauties and all mysteries. 

The breathing multiple of roses passionate, 

Of perfect pearls, of birds with happy melody— 

Ay, a mere girl, yet in herself a universe.’ 

A poet sung that, Margery, and it is the very echo of my 
heart. " 

4 ‘ You are very good," she murmured gently; and then, 
bending to touch her cheek with his lips. Lord Court went 
slowly from the room. 

Margery lay silent, his words ringing in her ears, and 
again and again she told herself that she could not destroy 
this man's new-found peace, his life's happiness. She 
must strive to crush all love and remembrance from her 
heart, turn her face from the past, with all its store of 
sweetness and bitterness, and look upon the future, where 
the path of duty lay straight before her. Loyalty and 
honor demanded the sacrifice, and she would obey them. 

“ I shall go my ways, tread out my measure. 

Fill the days of my daily breath 
With fugitive things not good to treasure — 

Do as the world doth, say as it saith. 

But, if we had loved each other, 

Oh, sweet!” 


MARGERY DAW. 


147 


CHAPTER XX. 

Days glided on, and Margery grew gradually stronger. 
October was nearing its close, but still the sunshine was 
warm and genial, and the wind from the sea soft and 
gentle. It was quite a little fishing-village where the Earl 
and Countess of Court were staying, a rambling quaint 
three-cornered place., inhabited by healthy strong-limbed 
fisher-folk. Lord Court had brought his wife down to 
Wavemouth by the advice of two London physicians, and, 
when the first week of anxiety was passed, and he saw 
signs of returning health on her sweet face, he was thank- 
ful beyond words. The village people were honored and 
awe-struck by the presence of an earl and countess in 
their midst; they had few grand visitors at Wavemouth. 
An artist now and then paid the place a visit — indeed there 
was one staying there when Margery arrived. He sketched 
the ruddy-faced children and made his way to the moth- 
ers' hearts by his sweet clear voice and gentle manners. 

Margery learned afterward that the song she had heard 
so clearly that afternoon when she woke to remembrance 
had come from his artist's lips; but she never saw the 
singer — he quitted the village soon afterward, and left the 
children and maidens lamenting. 

Lord Court had brought a low easy carriage down with 
them, and he drove his. wife about the picturesque village, 
watching with a throb of pleasure the interest dawn in her 
face. Wavemouth was so quiet, so peaceful, so completely 
in keeping with her desire for rest, that Margery loved the 
place. 

She was still far from strong, and the sea-breezes brought 
a sense of relief and freshness to her spirit. She was fight- 
ing a hard battle with herself, striving with all her might 
to crush out her old love and turn to her husband, whose 
depths of goodness and generosity she was learning to know 
better each day. But as she grew stronger the struggle was 
more bitter; her thoughts would fly to Hurstley, to the 
dead Mary Morris whose memory she held so dear, and 
then to that other who was, despite all her efforts, so inex- 
tricably bound up with her existence. 


MARGERY DAW. 


148 

The earl, totally ignorant of the secret in his wife^s 
breast, reveled in his new-found happiness, rejoiced in the 
possession of his treasure. Day by day he was drawn closer 
to this girl whose sweetness had been sung by the lips of 
his dead sister. It was so great a change to him after 
those four years of ceaseless pain, distrust, and darkness! 
Often in those days he had tried to escape from the re- 
membrance of his wife’s mistake; but he could find no re- 
lief till that evening when he stood in the door-way listening 
to the sweet clear girlish voice ringing through the room, 
and then suddenly misery and despair vanished and hope 
revived — hope that afterward became a sweet reality. 

“ Not by appointment do we meet Delight and Joy- 
They heed not our expectancy; 

But round some corner in the streets of life 
They on a sudden clasp us with a smile.” 

And now Margery was his wife — his very own; there was 
none to claim her, none to share the treasure of her love. 
Was not this blessing too great? His earnest eyes, dark 
with tenderness, were never tired of watching her lovely 
unconscious face as she sat buried in her memories of the 
past, the look of unutterable sadness that had touched him 
in their earlier acquaintance seeming to him now caused 
but by the recollection of her childhood’s history, her 
mother’s death. 

At last the sunshine died, the sea’s calm was gone, the 
tiny rippling movement was changed into gigantic rolling 
waves crested with white foam and dashing on to the beach 
in angry majesty, with a sound as of thunder. Margery 
loved the sea in its fury; she would sit and watch it for 
hours, her heart beating fast, and her nerves thrilling at 
the rage in its fierce waves and dashing spray. The anger, 
the wildness of the elements, relieved her overwrought 
mind, and the very tumult brought her peace. 

She stood at the window one afternoon gazing at the ex- 
panse of dull leaden -green water. There were no waves; 
it was as if a titanic movement from below agitated the 
surface and caused the heavy sudden motion. As she stood 
thus, her husband approached her. 

“ Not tired of the sea yet, my darling?” he said, with a 
smile. “ I shall be afraid to suggest a migration if this de- 
votion lasts much longer.” 


MARGERY DAW. 


149 


6t It is so wonderful/* Margery answered dreamily. “ I 
can see such strange pictures, imagine such things, as I 
watch it. I have never seen it as it is to-day. ** 

“ There will be a storm to-night. I have just seen one 
of the fishermen, and he says they expect very rough 
weather. ** 

“ It looks an angry discontented sea/* Margery said, still 
dreamily — “ as if its passion would be terrible when it did 
break forth.** 

“ Look at the foot of the Templar* s Rock! It is be- 
ginning already; the foam is as white as snow. There is, 
as you say, Margery, sullen discontent in its look; but there 
is also a wildness of despair. It reminds me, looking at 
that whirling rush round the rock, of Tennyson *s words — 

“ ‘ Break, break, break 

At the foot of thy crags, O sea! 

But the tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me!’ ” 

With a little shudderMargery turned from the window. 

“ To-day has broken the spell/* she said hurriedly, with 
forced lightness. “ I think I am tired of the sea at last. ** 

“You shall leave it when you will — to-night even if you 
wish it, my darling; it is still early afternoon. I will tele- 
graph for rooms. Pauline shall accompany you; the 
others can remain, with the exception of my man, and 
follow to-morrow. ** 

“ But it is so much trouble/* began Margery. 

“Trouble, my sweet, where you are concerned! You 
would like a change? Yes, I see it in your eyes! We will 
go, and this, Margery, shall be the beginning of our mar- 
ried life, henceforth to be spent hand in hand together. I 
will go at once and give my orders; we will start by the 
first train. I believe there is one about 4:30.** 

“ You are so good!** Margery murmured. 

He bent, and raised her hands to his lips. 

“ Never say that again, my darling; my whole life is for 
you.** 

As he left, and looked at the sea, Margery turned once 
more to the window. Yes, she must go. 

Suddenly the misery, the weight of her struggle seemed 
to overcome her. She had sat and dreamed much; she 
must now put aside all dreams, and turn to life in real 


150 


MARGERY DAW. 


earnest. The sea no longer comforted her, and the words 
her husband had quoted strengthened the desire that had 
be 311 growing within her to leave it. 

“ The tender grace of a day that is dead 
Will never come back to me!” 

The truth, the agony in those words, struck her with ' 
bitter force. She roused herself with a great effort, deter- 
mined to fling aside all her weakness and face her duty. 

The entrance of Pauline checked her m usings. 

“Miladi is really going!” exclaimed the maid, delight 
shining in her great black eyes, “ Ah, but I am glad! 
Miladi will be so much better away from this dismal place; 
it is enough to give one the migraine. Miladi is wise/* 

“You are glad to go, Pauline?” questioned Margery, 
smiling, as she watched the maid bring out a costly mantle 
and furs for her coming journey. 

“ Ma foi , mais oui , miladi! I love London — the sea is 
so triste. Miladi will take her jewels with her, sans 
douteV’ 

“ My jewels, Pauline! I have none. ” 

“ Mais , how stupide! Miladi has never been even shown 
her beautiful jewels! Ah, miladi must see them — they 
are magnifiques ! ” 

Pauline brought the richly inlaid case to a table near, 
and spread the contents of the numerous morocco cases on 
the cloth. Margery looked at the jewels in silence; she did 
not touch one of the glittering rings or bracelets, or lift the 
tiara of diamonds from its velvet throne. 

Their beauty amazed, but did not please her; ambition 
for such things had no place in her nature. She smiled 
faintly at Pauline's delight and many ejaculations. 

“ Milord had them all brought down from the manor 
for miladi. See — she will wear this when she is presented. 
Does not miladi like them, and the case with the arms and 
the letters of miladi 's name? See — how beautiful!” 

“Yes, they are very beautiful,” replied Lady Court, 
quietly; “ but I shall not wear them just yet, Pauline. ” 

“ But miladi must put on a few rings above her league 
de mariage — mais oui — just a simple one; it will look bet- 
ter.” 

Margery hesitated; then, hearing a slight noise, she 
turned and met her husband's tender eyes. 


MARGERY DAW. 


151 


“ Pauline has been showing me my jewels; they are 
beautiful — too beautiful. I thank you for them all. She 
tells me that I must wear some rings above my wedding 
one. Will you put them on?” 

Pauline had disappeared on a murmured pretext. Lord 
Court took the slender white hand in his. 

“ It wants no rings to enhance its beauty,” he said, with 
a smile; “ but Pauline is right — you must do as others do, 
and wear some to guard this band of gold. I have two 
that will please you, I think, my darling— two I have in- 
tended giving you for the past week.” 

He touched a small spring in the case and disclosed a lit- 
tle drawer. In this two rings were lying; he took them 
out. 

“ This hoop of diamonds, Margery,” he said gently, 
“ was my mother’s; it is old-fashioned now, and perhaps — ” 

“ Let me wear it,” she whispered hurriedly. 

In silence he slipped the circlet over the tiny finger, then 
pressed his lips to it. 

“ This one you know ” — taking up the other. “You 
have seen it often — the sapphires will match your eyes, 
sweet — it was Enid’s ring.” 

Tears sprung to Margery’s eyes as she looked at the 
glistening stones, and remembered how often she had seen 
them flashing on the frail white hand of the dead girl. 

“ They are sacred to me — I shall treasure them both,” 
she said reverently, then turned aside with trembling lips. 

Pauline returned in two minutes, and the jewels were 
restored to their cases and packed in their iron-bound box 
for the journey. 

Margery, wrapped in her furs, took her last look at the 
sea, its sullen surface already broken by flecks' of white. 
The vast expanse of dull-green water bordered by the gray 
sky struck her suddenly with a sense of gloom. 

She turned from it with a. sigh of relief; and, as she left 
it, she determined to banish all the dreams and sad rec- 
ollections it had brought her, burying all memories in its 
dark unfathomable depths. 

So she went away from the quiet village back to London 
and to life, back to duty, firm in her new-born strength 
and will. 

“ Ah, they are happy, milord and miladi both!” sighed 
Pauline to her companion and fellow- traveler, the earPs 


152 


MARGERY DAW. 


valet. “ She is so simple and so pretty — and they have 
love. Ah, monsieur, how great is that wondrous love!” 

The husband and wife sat silent during the greater part 
of the journey. Margery, resting her head against the 
cushions, sat with closed eyes. The earl thought she slept, 
but sleep was far from her. A vague longing seized her 
that she might step back into the far distant past when she 
knew neither the greatness of joy nor the bitterness of sor- 
row. If she could be once more the simple-minded girl liv- 
ing in all contentment her peaceful village life, her studies 
the one excitement of her days! She was happier then, 
before she had learned the mystery of her own heart, before 
childhood had vanished and womanhood had come in its 
place. 


CHAPTER XXI. 

It had been Lord Court's intention to travel with his 
wife straight down to Court Manor, after resting a day or 
two in London; but the death of his aunt. Lady Merivale, 
immediately on their arrival, necessitated his presence in 
town, as her affairs Vere left in his hands. Margery at 
first felt disappointed at the delay, but, after a week had 
passed, she grew content. They had a suite of rooms at 
the Bristol, and, to Pauline's delight, were in the very 
heart of London. Horses and carriages were brought up 
for the Countess of Court's use during her brief stay, and 
the slender black-robed girl with sweet pathetic face and 
crown of red-gold hair, provoked universal admiration. 
The earl had not many near relatives; but such of his con- 
nections as were in town paid an early visit to Lady Court, 
and found their anticipations of dislike turn to wonder at 
the gracious dignity and sweetness of Margery's presence. 
She soon learned that her strange romantic marriage was 
the one topic of the moment in society, that every one was 
eager to see the unknown girl who had won the heart of 
Nugent, Earl of Court, so eligible yet so disappointing a 
parti. It gave Margery no pleasure to receive and return 
the visits of the stately ladies who claimed to be her hus- 
band's friends; still she forced herself to do it, as the be- 
ginning of her path of duty. Every day, as she drove out, 
she dreaded to see those two faces whose images she could 
not banish from her memory; and she would shrink back 


r», / 


MARGERY DAW. 


153 


in the comer of the luxurious carriage as she passed a rid- 
ing-party, forgetful for the minute that her own features 
were hidden beneath the thick black veil which, despite all 
Pauline’s protests, she would wear, forgetful too of the 
fact that, were she to meet Yane Charteris and Stuart, they 
would never associate Margery Daw with the Countess of 
Court. For no mention of her name before her marriage 
had crept out. The world knew that the earl had taken 
his sister’s companion for his wife, and there its informa- 
tion ended. Miss Lawson and Dr. Fothergill and his wife 
were alone in the secret, and with them it was safe. 

One afternoon, at the beginning of the second week of 
their stay in town, a trial came to Margery’s pride. Lord 
Court was claimed by the lawyers; and, after a morning 
spent among her books, Margery prepared for a drive and 
some visits. Pauline dressed the slender graceful figure in 
the black garments and fastened the sable mantle while 
she uttered exclamations of delight at her mistress’ appear- 
ance. She made a slight protest as the veil was produced; 
but Margery was firm, and the delicate face with its great 
blue eyes was completely hidden beneath the thick folds. 

The first visit was to an old marchioness who had fallen 
a victim to Lady Court’s charm and sweetness, and Mar- 
gery made great progress toward friendship. Several ladies 
were present, and from one and all she received kind con- 
gratulations. 

“ But now I want to beg a favor, dear Lady Court,” 
said the hostess, after awhile; “it is rude of me perhaps, 
but I hope you will forgive it. Will you not remove that 
thick veil? We can not see your fair young face; and nat- 
ure has been so lavish to you, child, you can afford to be 
generous. ” 

Margery laughed softly, and put up her hand to unpin 
the veil, when the door opened, and a voice announced — 

“ Lady Charteris — Miss Charteris!” 

Margery felt the blood sufge in her ears and a mist rose 
before her eyes; she saw again the beautiful, cold, cruel 
creature who had spoken words that stabbed her to the very 
heart. 

She acknowledged the introduction with a slight bend of 
the head, then, murmuring a few words of regret and fare- 
well, went swiftly from the room to her carriage, her breast 
full of stormy emotions. 


154 


MARGERY DAW. 


{( I am so sorry you did not see Lady Court; she has the 
face of an angel,” said the hostess, as Margery disappeared. 
“ She is very tall,” observed Vane, in her most bored 
manner — “ almost too tall for a woman — and she seems to 
have red hair. I hate red hair / 9 she added, a vision of a 
sweet girlish face framed in red-gold curls rising before her 
as she spoke. 

“ Your taste, dear Vane, is always good,” observed the 
old lady dryly; and then the conversation drifted into other 
channels. 

Margery gave her orders in a quiet stifled voice, and was 
driven back to the hotel. The fear, the dread she had 
suffered in anticipation of tliis meeting was as nothing com- 
pared with the agony of pride and pain she now endured. 
She had thought herself strong, thought she was braced for 
whatever might happen, and at one blow the barriers she 
had been building were thrown to the ground, and she was 
the broken-hearted humiliated girl once again. The sight 
of Yane recalled all her despair, and knowledge that Stuart 
— her love — was lost to her forever. She sat in deep 
thought as the carriage rolled along, and it was not till it 
drew up at the hotel that she woke from her meditations. 
Then in a moment came the memory of her position — of 
her husband. She was now far above such insults, and she 
had one who would avenge them. The first rush of agita- 
tion had died away, and, when she reached her rooms, she 
paced up and down till her mind was restored to tranquil- 
lity. 

She would be braver in the future, and, if fate forced her 
to meet either of those two, she would go through the 
ordeal unflinchingly. It would be hitter, she knew — for, 
painful as the sight of Yane Charteris had been, it recalled 
only wounded pride; with the other her experience would 
be different, for the sight of Stuarts face would bring 
back the memory of her unrequited love and despair. 

She threw off her mantle and liat,-and turned suddenly 
to the piano. In moments of great emotion music soothed 
her — it relieved her overcharged heart. 

“We know not whether death be good. 

But life at least it will not he; 

Men will stand sadd’ning as we stood, 

Watch the same fields and skies as we, 

And the same sea. 


MARGERY DAW. 


155 


“Let this be said between us here — 

One love grows green when one turns gray. 

This year knows nothing of last year, 

To-morrow has no more to say 
To yesterday’” 

“ Live and let live, as I will do — 

Love and let love, and so will I; 

But sweet for me no more with you, 

Not while I live, not though I die. 

Good night, good-bye!” 

It was a new song sent in with many others by the earl. 
Margery played it through, and sung the words in a low 
sad voice, till the passion of the music awoke a chord 
within her; and then, as she neared the end, her tones 
rang out clear and sweet through the large room. As the 
echoes died away the door opened and the footman ushered 
in a lady. Margery rose quickly, gave one look, then, with 
a sudden exclamation of pleasure, hastened forward and 
threw her arms round the new-comer. 

“ ‘ Miss Lawson!” she cried, with honest joy. “I am 
so glad — so glad to see you once again!" 

Miss Lawson kissed the fair cheek in silence, while tears 
glistened in her eyes. If ever she had doubted the warmth, 
the generosity, the goodness of Margery’s nature for an in- 
stant, the genuine pleasure and affection of the girl now 
would have shamed her. She was still the Margery of old, 
the sweet loving Margery she knew so well. 

“You are glad, child?” she said, quietly. So am I to 
see your dear face again; the months have seemed long 
since you went, though your, letters have told me all you 
have done. You are the same Margery; yet you are 
changed, dear. " 

“ I am older and — a married woman," Margery re- 
sponded, with a forced little laugh. “ My dignity makes 
me older. But come and sit with me. How much 1 have 
to say, and yet I scarcely know where to begin !” 

Miss Lawson let her remove her bonnet and cloak and 
push her with affectionate hand into an easy-chair in the 
inner room, close to a blazing fire. With ‘undisguised 
pleasure her eyes rested on the girlish figure. It was not 
until Margery had gone from the village that the rectory 
governess realized how deeply the waif had crept into her 
heart. 


156 


MARGERY DAW. 


44 You are not surprised to see me?” she said, after 
awhile, as Lady Court seated herself on a stool at her feet. 

44 I have been thinking of you so much and so often that 
you seem part of my life. You are come to stay with me, 
dear Miss Lawson? Yes, yes, you must stay; I shall not 
let you go.” 

44 1 must return to-morrow; Mrs. Carr will expect me. 
I left Hurstley on purpose to see you, Margery. ” 

44 How good of you!” exclaimed Margery, warmly, fond- 
ling the worn hand between her two soft palms. 44 This is 
just what I wanted to complete everything. ” 

44 You are happy?” asked Miss Lawson, abruptly.' 

44 1 am content,” answered the girl; and her great blue 
eyes met the gray ones with a steadfast look. 44 And now 
tell me all the news. Am I quite forgotten in the village? 
Do none of them ask for me in Hurstley?” 

44 Margery, I will be candid with you. When you first 
went I heard very little about you, you know — I seldom go 
into the village; but in a very short time the news came 
that you had gone to Australia with Reuben and Robert 
Bright. The people were hard, dear, and blamed 3 r ou. 
The Brights are heart-broken at # Robertas leaving them, 
and all the fault is laid at your door. They do not speak 
kindly of you, child; and, when first I heard them, I had 
great difficulty in holding my tongue. But you had begged 
for secrecy and silence, and I had given my word. I meant 
to have written to or seen you, but then came poor Lady 
Enid's death, your marriage, and your illness. I could do 
nothing but wait. I have waited; and now, Margery, I 
have come here for the very purpose of asking you to take 
the seal from my lips that I may explain to the village and 
silence the slander.” 

Margery had risen to her feet, her hands pressed to her 
bosom, her face deadly pale. 

44 How cruel the world is,” she murmured, bitterly, 
44 how terribly cruel! They know nothing, yet they speak 
harshly. They do not know how I begged, how I entreated 
Robert to go back to his home. You remember how 
stunned I was when first I learned that he had joined Reu- 
ben?” 

44 1 know,” answered Miss Lawson; 44 and I would have 
all the world do you justice. You are now great; let them 
know you as you are, and crush their calumny. I do not 


MARGERY DAW. 


157 


blame the Brights — their whole life was centered in Robert: 
but— ” 

“ And for the rest I do not care, ” interrupted Margery, 
proudly. “ The Brights will hear from Robert soon; and 
then they will learn the truth and know how they have 
wronged me. What had I done to the village that at the 
very beginning of my life they should think ill of me? Oh, 
Miss Lawson, is the world all like this?” 

“ The world is cruel, Margery, bitter, hard,” the elder 
woman said, with a sigh; then she added, regretfully, “ I 
am sorry you will not disclose your secret; but you know 
best, dear, and I have done what I considered my duty.” 

“ You have done as you have done so often — treated me 
as though I were your own child — and I thank you.” 

“And have you not been my own?” said the elder 
woman with a new light of tenderness on her face. “ I 
have seen you spring up from a tiny child to womanhood; 
I have loved you through all, and I am proud of you. You 
are to me what the poet says — 

** ‘ For years she grew in sun and shower. 

Then Nature said, “A lovelier flower 
On earth was never seen. 

This child I to myself will take; 

She shall he mine, and I will make 
A lady of my own.” * 

And Nature did that, Margery. No rules of mine could 
do what she did. You had the germ within you of all that 
makes a grand good woman, and it has come to perfec- 
tion.” 

Margery bent and kissed the lips that spoke the grateful 
words. 

“You always comforted me, dearest, truest friend! 
Ah, why will you not stay with me always, to be my coun- 
selor and guide in the years to come? Aou have worked so 
hard, now is your time for rest. Promise me that, when 
you are tired, you will make your home with me. ” 

“I will come to you whenever I can; but I will not 
live with you. It would not be wise. Now tell me of all 
the strange things that have happened since we parted. 
Thank Heaven, my child, your lot has fallen upon the gold- 
en side of life! Your troubles are over, now begins your 
happiness. ” 

Margery's hand had wandered to her heart-shaped locket. 


158 


MARGERY DAW. 


which day and night she always wore. She raised it, and 
gazed at the image of her mother's face. 

“It seems like a fairy-story," she said slowly, and 
dreamily. “ I wonder does the knowledge that I have so 
much, that the babe she left alone in the wide, wide world 
has great riches and lives in luxury make her happy?” 

“ It would make her happier, dear child,” Miss Lawson 
added quietly, “ to see that your companion and friend 
for life, your husband, is so good and true a man. He is 
well known to me, Margery. You see, my sister has told 
me all about his nobleness and worth; and from my heart 
I congratulate you — more, I rejoice with you.” 

Margery did not answer; her hand was still closed round 
her locket, her eyes were fixed on the fire: The light flicker- 
ing and dancing on her pale lovely face found no smile 
there, only a dqpth of pain in the wondrous star-like eyes. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

The fortnight's stay of the Crosbie Castle party in 
town was extended to nearly six weeks; then Stuart es- 
corted his mother home, and Vane Charteris remained in 
London. She was now thoroughly vexed and wearied. In 
spite of all her scheming, she was no nearer the goal— -in- 
deed she began almost to fear that Stuart would slip 
through her fingers altogether. She grew cross and wor- 
ried, driving her mother almost frantic by her return to 
what she called ill-health. The suspense was really telling 
upon her, and with the birth of fear came strong deter- 
mination. Eor her own pride's sake she must win now — 
the bitter mortification, the humiliation of failure would be 
too terrible to bear. Had she not tacitly encouraged the 
idea that her marriage with the heir of Crosbie Castle and 
Beecham Park was a foregone conclusion?- Already she 
had experienced the pleasure of seeing envy and disap- 
pointment gather on several of her rivals' faces. What 
barrier now remained? Stuart had, to all outward appear- 
ance, blotted the foolish episode of Margery Daw from his 
memory — there was no other influence to combat hers. 
Why then did he not wake to the reality and complete her 
satisfaction? The delay was annoying, the suspense killing. 

Stuart, little guessing the workings of Vane's mind, was 


MARGERY DAW. 


159 


recovering gradually from the wound that his heart had 
received. His reckless mood had gone now, and he was 
once more his calm manly self; but the happy brightness 
of his nature was dulled, his light laughter-loving ways had 
fled forever. His love for Margery had never died; he 
treasured it now as a beautiful dream, too great a happi- 
ness to be realized on earth. The first agony of surprise, 
doubt, and grief over, he grew to judge her as he judged, 
all women now — he thought of her, not as Margery, the 
pure, sweet, fresh young girl, but Margery the worldly, 
selfish, artificial coquette, of the same nature as the fash- 
ionable butterflies he met in town. His love for her was a 
thing apart from her memory; he deemed her unworthy of 
so great, so true a feeling; he had worshiped an ideal, and 
he kept that idea still shrined in his heart. 

Growing weary of life in town Stuart went back to the 
castle, thankful for the breath of the fresh country air, the 
rural quiet. He intended to leave England, to travel once 
again, but his father/s worn face recalled Sir Douglas Ge- 
r ant's words; and so, with a little sigh, he buried his own 
wishes, and gave himself up to minister to the parent who 
loved him so dearly, and whom he treasured in return. To 
his mother Stuart was a puzzle. Never once was Margery's 
name on his lips, yet his undoubted love for her, as revealed 
in their one interview, had considerably startled her. She 
was surprised at his quietness, his acquiescence in her 
every wish, grew uneasy at his sudden gravity and the sad- 
ness of his face, and almost wished for a display of the 
strong will which for so many years she had deplored. She 
too was anxious that his marriage should be arranged, but 
had made no remark to him on the subject, deeming the 
aflair best left in Vane's able hands. 

Stuart had locked the thick letter which Sir Douglas had 
confided to his care among the few treasures he possessed, 
and he waited, expecting news from his cousin every day, 
but none came. At times Stuart grew uneasy; he saw the 
announcement of the arrival of the vessel in which Sir 
Douglas had sailed, and yet his cousin made no sign. All 
h£ could do was to wait and hope. 

He turned his attention to the business connected with 
the lands and estates of Crosbie Castle, and spent long days 
with the farmers and laborers, winning their hearts by his 
warm generous nature, and the interest he took in their 


160 


MARGERY DAW. 


welfare. But this state of things displeased Mrs. Crosbie 
beyond words. She was an ambitious woman — she longed 
to see her son enter the world's lists for fame; and to 
watch him gradually developing into a quiet farm-owner 
was more than she could bear. It roused her pride to think 
that her son should have the whole of his life altered 
through the sentimental folly of a plebeian romance, and 
she determined to speak to him openly upon the subject of 
his career on the first opportunity. 

J It was now about the middle of November, and Stuart 
was fully occupied with altering and restoring his cottages 
before the severe weather set in. He went out early and 
returned late, so that his mother found the desired oppor- 
tunity long in coming. At last, one afternoon, she per- 
ceived him striding up the avenue; and, leaving her bou- 
doir, she met him in the hall. 

44 Well, mother," said Stuart, smiling, 44 not out to-day? 
You are wise — it is ankle-deep in mud. Don't come near 
me — I am not fit to approach you. I have come back for 
an agreement I made about Cullam's cottage; I must be 
off directly." 

44 What is your hurry, Stuart?" asked Mrs. Crosbie 
coldly. 44 Can not you spare me a few minutes? I have 
long wanted to speak to you, but really you are so much 
engaged, I have had no chance. " 

4 4 Of course I am ready, mother, if you wish it," Stuart 
replied, though not readily; he never cared for these brief 
intervals of conversation with his mother — they invariably 
annoyed him. 

44 Come to my boudoir for a few minutes." 

He followed Mrs. Crosbie in silence; then, as she closed 
the door, he walked to the window and leaned against the 
ledge. 

44 Well, mother?" he said, in a tone of impatience. 

Mrs. Crosbie stirred the fire, then warmed her white 
hands. She looked at her son, and the sight of his grave, 
handsome face strengthened her purpose; it was such a 
faint likeness to the merry bright face of a few months 
back. 

44 Stuart," she began quietly, 44 1 wish to speak to you 
seriously. Do you intend to lead this kind of life always?" 

44 What kind of life, mother?" 


M AUGER Y DAW. 161 

“ This dull, monotonous, farmer-like existence. Have 
you no aim — no ambition?” 

“ None,” Stuart answered laconically. 

His mother moved impatiently in her seat. 

“Pray be sensible, Stuart,” she said sharply; “you 
were never like this before. It galls me, it wounds me to 
see you wasting your days down here, pottering about on 
the farms, and for what?” 

“ Some one must look after things, mother; my father 
can not, and you have often complained to me of the bad 
management, so I have determined to relieve you of fur- 
ther anxiety.” 

“ Pshaw! Do I want my son to turn steward? I have 
to-day received ‘a letter from Lady Bayliffe strongly rec- 
ommending me a manager, and I have all but settled to 
engage him.” 

“ Then don't do it,” promptly replied Stuart. “ He is 
not wanted. ” 

“He is wanted! I shall not allow you, Stuart, to do 
this kind of work. ” 

“ My dear mother, I am of age!” 

Mrs. Crosbie was silent, and Stuart, looking up, saw the 
pain and perplexity on her face. 

“ Forgive me, mother,” he added, moving toward her. 
“ I am very selfish. Tell me what you want me to do, and 
if it is in my power I will undertake it. ” 

“ I want you to rise in the world; I want you to be fa- 
mous, Stuart.” 

“ Fame is not to be bought, mother.” 

“It is within your reach. Contest Chesterham at the 
next election. You will be returned with an immense 
majority. The rest will follow.” 

“ I have no brains for politics,” declared Stuart. “ I can 
not do it. ” 

“ There is no such word as ‘ can not!' ” returned Mrs. 
Crosbie, vigorously. “ If I were in your place, Stuart, 
how differently I would act! You are wasting your life. ” 

Stuart walked back to the window. 

“ I will not give you a decided answer now, mother,” he 
said. “ Give me two days to consider.” 

“ Willingly,” she agreed, “and weigh all things well. 
Remember, you will afford me the greatest happiness in 
life if you agree to this and to another wish.” 


162 


MARGERY DAW. 


“To make you happy, mother, I would do much/* 
Stuart responded, raising her hand to his lips. “ What is 
it?” 

Mrs. Crosbie drew a long breath. 

“ That you will marry. ” 

“ Marry!” repeated Stuart, dropping her hand, while 
his face grew white and his brow darkened. 4 4 That, 
mother, is impossible.” 

“ I have not spoken to you on this subject before, 
Stuart, though it has been one very near my heart. You 
have been troubled ; but you are not my son if yon have 
not pride sufficient to drown and wash away forever any 
trace of your trouble. It is not for a Crosbie to submit to 
insult and humiliation. ” 

“I submit to none!” retorted Stuart, in a quiet, clear 
voice. 

“ You have been deceived,” his mother declared, coldly 
and proudly; “ by one who was not worthy even a second 
thought.” 

“ Mother!” he exclaimed, hurriedly, and then stopped. 
What could he say in defense of Margery? She was, in- 
deed, all this. “ Your wish is sudden,” he added, after a 
pause. “ It comes to me quite unexpectedly; but I have 
only one answer to it — I shall never marry 

Mrs. Crosbie compressed her lips and turned away. 

“Just now you called yourself selfish,” she observed. 
“ I think you were right.” 

“ Why should I marry, mother?” he cried, suddenly. 
“You know, or perhaps you can never know, what the 
past meant to me. I am not a vane to be turned by every 
wind. I have loved, and I shall not love again. ” 

“ What has that to do with marriage?” 

“ I would not ask any woman to be a wife on such empty 
terms; it would be a sin. But it is not necessary. I would 
do anything, mother, in my power to please you; but this 
I can not . 9 3 

“ Are you my child?” asked his mother, quietly and 
coldly. “ Can you waste your whole life, like a misan- 
thrope, because a village coquette has laughed at and 
mocked you? There are good women's hearts still in the 
world, women of our world, who can love and suffer as 
such creatures never can.” 


MARGERY DAW. 163 

“ I will offer no woman my life without my love/* de- 
clared Stuart, firmly. 

“ What would you say if I were to tell j r ou that there is 
one who would take it gladly, one who has watched and 
worked for you all these months in silence, and who, 
through everything, is steadfast and true as steel ?” 

Mrs. Crosbie’ s hand fell on her son’s shoulder as she 
spoke. She felt it was her last card; it might win the 
game. Stuart looked into his mother’s eyes; a flush rose 
to his face. 

“You mean,” he began. 

“ Your cousin. Vane,” she broke in. 

“ Vane!” 

His mother’s hand slipped from its hold; but he did not 
move. He was in a very whirlwind of surprise, pain, and 
doubt. 

“ You have not known? No; she hid her secret to 
well ! There is a woman fit to be your wife — proud, lov- 
ing, courageous, a companion to cheer, a helpmate to stim- 
ulate your ambition. Had you not been so blind, Stuart, 
you might have seen this. What do you say now?” 

“ I can say nothing,” he answered, still in the same low 
tones. “ This has stunned me. You must let me think, 
mother; I have not the power to speak now.” 

“ Yes, think — and think well,” Mrs. Crosbie said gent- 
ly. Something told her that she had won; Yane’s devotion 
had touched the right chord. 

She watched her son move to the door in silence. 

“We will speak of this again another time,” he said, 
with constraint. 

A wave of compunction y>assed through Mrs. Crosbie ’s 
mind when she was alone. Would Vane, after all, bring 
him happiness? She had tricked and deceived him. But 
this momentary feeling was soon lost in the glad thrill of 
ambition that stirred her breast. Stuart married, and in 
Parliament, she had nothing more to wish for. 

In a maze of troubled thoughts Stuart strode down the 
wet paths. Vane loved him; and yet she had put her own 
feelings on one side and ministered tenderly, thoughtfully, 
kindly to him! What depths of womanly sweetness in 
such a sacrifice — what a generous noble nature ! His heart 
warmed with gratitude toward her, though it cooled again 
as he remembered that she loved him. W hat could he do 


164 


MARGERY DAW. 


— whither turn in this dilemma? Vane was dear to him 
as a friend, as a sister, but not as the woman he would 
make his wife. And to make any woman his wife now, 
when such sadness darkened his life, was almost impossible. 
What must he do? Could he let her live on alone, with 
the sorrow he knew from experience to be so bitter wearing 
out her heart? Would it be a generous return for all she 
had done, for the noble tenderness with which she had 
tried to bring him happiness? No, no, a thousand times 
no! If he could no longer have joy, if gladness were gone 
forever, he had still the peaceful pleasure of bringing glad- 
ness to another's heart. His mother was right — it was his 
duty to face the world, and Vane should be liis wife. 

Even while he thought thus, his brow contracted with 
pain, a spasm of undying regret shot through him, the 
dream of his first love in all its sweetness returned and in- 
thralled him one more. It was impossible! He paced up 
and down under the wet dripping trees, trying to calm the 
tumult in his breast, with a longing for solitude and peace 
one moment, and a piteous thought of Vane's great love 
the next. It was a terrible struggle, and it lasted through 
the night-hours, never ceasing till the dawn, when, pale 
and worn, yet with a steadfast look of determination about 
his mouth and in his handsome eyes, he conquered it. He 
was brave and strong — sorrow could not crush him; but 
* Vane — poor delicate Vane — she could not endure trouble; 
and so, if indeed his mother had spoken aright, he would 
go to Vane, and ask her to be his wife. 

The gloomy weather in London did not tend to lessen 
Miss Chartens's despondent mood. She was peevish, 
bored, discontented, longing to leave England and go to a 
warmer climate, yet feeling that she could not give up her 
desire and declare herself defeated. She was waiting only 
for a week or two to pass, and then she would go down 
once more to Crosbie Castle and make a final effort. This 
idea was occupying her mind as she sat one dull wet after- 
noon gazing out into the dismal streets, with a gloomy look 
spoiling her pretty face. She heard the door open, but did 
not stir, imagining it to be her mother. The stillness that 
followed caused her to turn; and, looking round, she met 
Stuart's eyes. 

“ Stuart!" she exclaimed, her face flushing. “ You 
have given me quite a start! I did not know — " 


165 


MARGERY DAW. 

“ I have been watching ?ou for the last two minutes, 
Yane; you were lost in thougl't- Whose memory were you 
honoring by such deep meditate?*; * 9 

Stuart looked very handsome, anu something in his man- 
ner thrilled her with joy. 

“ I was thinking of Crosbie,” she ans^ ere< ^* “ Come to 
the fire, Stuart; you must be frozen. h° w Aunt 

Constance — and why have you come? I aiff y ei T to 
see you.” * * v 

Stuart stood silent, slowly removing his gloves; theh ne 
moved nearer to her side by the fire. Yane was looking 
lovely; the plaintive sadness of her face, which was tinged 
with a delicate flush, touched him. He had read it well in 
the first moment of his entrance, and, traced, as he thought, 
the marks of her trouble. 

“ I have come to see you, Yane,” he told her quietly, 
“ because I have something to ask you.” 

Yane felt her heart beat wildly. 

“ Yes, Stuart,” she said faintly. 

“ Yane, you know my inmost heart — you were my con- 
fidant, my friend. I want you to continue to be my 
friend, the best and truest of companions — I want a help- 
mate, a counselor. I want you to be my wife. ” 

Yane stood silent, her head bent. She felt faint, and, 
now that success had come at last, she could not speak. 

“ I can not offer -you great love,” Stuart went on, tak- 
ing her hand — “ I will not deceive you, Yane — it is buried 
in the past; but I will give you affection, devotion — true 
and sincere devotion, if you will accept it. The gift is 
poor, Yane. Reject it if you will.” 

“ Reject it, Stuart!” murmured Yane, turning her 
luminous blue eyes on him. “No; I accept it, for 1 love 
you — 1 have loved you through it all, and I am happy at 
last!” 

Stuart pressed his lips to hers; and the compact was 
sealed. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

Miss Lawson kept to her word and departed on the fol- 
lowing day for Hurstley, despite all Margery's pleading 
and wishes. The short visit had been a great pleasure to 
them both. To Margery the very sight of her governess 


MARGERY 


+ja \Y. 


106 


had brought back a wave of 1 ' her brief past happiness, and 
unconsciously soothed her ■ ' and Miss Lawson had felt her 
heart thrill with pride an, l°gladness to see her pupil grown 
so fair and loyely a wp^man, and surrounded by ail that she 
could desire. Yet ' the strange sadness in Margery’s eyes 
would haunt her. r What could be the secret that had de- 
stroyed her girlishness and brought such an expression to 
the young f^ce? Miss Lawson pondered this deeply, but 
could ar~ ive a t no solution of the mystery, and indeed 
, r01 .ui have been no little astonished had she learned what 
link it was that bound Margery’s heart to Hurstley. She 
knew the girl had been acquainted with Stuart Crosbie; 
but that fact was not strange, for Stuart, had a kind word 
and smile for every one in the village, and Margery of 
course shared this general friendship with the rest. 

Lord Court had welcomed Miss Lawson warmly and 
courteously, and even in their brief meeting a mutual lik- 
ing sprung up between them. The earl was delighted to 
see the flush of pleasure, called up by her presence, on 
Margery’s face, and he added his entreaties to his wife’s to 
urge the governess to stay longer; but their pleadings were 
vain, and Margery could only kiss her true friend and let 
her depart, having first extracted from her a iiromise of an 
early visit to Court Manor. 

The afternoon on which Miss Lawson left was gloomy 
and wet, and Margery felt sad and a little lonely as she sat 
with her books and work. Her husband had gone to the 
club before luncheon, and she had decided to make the 
best of a long afternoon when the door opened and he ap- 
peared. 

“ Do you feel inclined to go out, my darling?” he asked, 
tenderly, bending to imprint a kiss on her brow. 

Margery looked up inquiringly. 

4 4 Because,” he explained, 44 1 should like to take you 
with me to call on an old friend who is ill. I had no idea 
he was in England. As a rule, he is wandering round the 
world in a most extraordinary fashion. But I saw Notte- 
way at the club, and he told me Gerant has been down with 
rheumatic fever for the last six weeks and was quite alone. 
So I looked in on him for a few minutes, and, having men- 
tioned my young wife, he pressed me to bring you round 
to see him, if you had nothing better to do.” 


MARGERY DAW. 


167 


replied Margery, rising. 


“ I will go, with pleasure,” 

“Who is he, Nugent?” 

“ Sir Douglas Gerant. I knew him years ago in Eng- 
land; but we met abroad principally, and I liked him very 
much. He is a peculiar, almost uncouth, man, but so kind 
and good — as tender as a woman and most unselfish. For 
these weeks past he has been very ill; but he would not let 
his people know, and has been attended only by his serv- 
ant, who has been his companion in all his travels. * 9 
“ And he would really like to see me?” queried Lady 
Court, putting her dainty work into its basket. 

“ He seemed to wish it. I happened to mention that I 
was married; and, when I spoke of my happiness, he said, 
in his old abrupt manner, 4 Bring her to see me. Court, if 
she will not be frightened by such an- old savage;* so I 
came at once. But, if you would rather not go — ” 

44 Oh, I should like to see him!** broke in Margery. 
“Poor man, all alone! And I have nothing to do this 
afternoon. I will not be long, Nugent.** 

With a tender smile the earl watched her graceful figure 
flit through the door-way; then he walked to the fire-place, 
and, leaning his back against it, gave himself up to pleas- 
ant thoughts. The care-worn look, the expression of trouble 
and pain, was gone from his face; hope seemed written oil 
every manly feature, and the handsome dark eyes flashed 
with a light of gladness that spoke plainly of his altered 
life. 


Margery was soon back. She had put on her sables, a 
round cap of the same rich fur surmounting her red-gold 
curls, and for once she wore no veil. She had determined 
to hide herself no longer. She had nothing to fear; it was 
she who had been wronged and insulted. Pride lent her 
strength, and she felt that her eyes could meet Vane*s 
clearly and coldly now, even though her heart still ached 
with the pain Stuart Crosbie had caused. 

The earl settled her comfortably in the carriage, and 
then stepped in himself. 

“ This weather is terrible,” he said, as they started. 
44 Once this law business is settled, Margery, I think I shall 
take you to a warmer climate, to see the sunshine and 
breathe the scent of flowers.** 

44 There is one pilgrimage I must make before we do 


168 


MARGERY DAW. 


that/ ' returned Margery in a low voice. 44 1 can not rest 
till I have visited Enid's grave. " 

The earl raised her little black-gloved hand to his lips. 

44 You speak only my heart's thoughts, my own; but I 
hesitated to take you to the manor in this wet gloomy 
weather. I thought the sunshine would — " 

44 Sunshine is beautiful; but the manor is home, and it 
is near her. " 

Margery smiled faintly; she was compelled tosj^eak these 
words, for she felt almost overpowered by this tender devo- 
tion, and suffered miserably as she thought how poorly 
she could return it. Henceforth it mattered little to her 
where she lived; but, if her choice of the manor brought 
him pleasure, she was glad. 

44 Home!" repeated Lord Court tenderly. 44 Ah, Mar- 
gery, you can not know what a wealth of happiness there 
is in that word! Thank you, dear, for uttering it. Yes, 
we will go home . 99 

They were silent after this till they reached a quiet street 
in an unfashionable quarter, and presently the earl handed 
Margery into the door-way of a tall gloomy-looking house. 

44 Gerant always stays here," he said, as they went up- 
stairs. 44 Will you remain here, my dearest, till I see if 
he is ready to receive you?" 

Margery smiled, and waited in a room that looked cozy 
and picturesque in the fire-glow. The walls were hung 
with weapons of all nations; a heterogeneous mass of quaint 
curious things were grouped in corners; carved and painted 
gourds were placed here and there, with ivory ornaments 
and rare bits of china. It presented a strange contrast to 
the dull, ordinary exterior of the house, and Margery found 
much to attract her till her husband returned. 

44 Now, my darling, come with me. Loose that heavy 
cloak, or you will be too warm; and, if the old man asks 
you to sing, will you gratify him?" 

44 With all my heart." 

Lord Court led his wife across a passage, and pushed 
open a door hung with curtains. The room that she en- 
tered was almost dark, but Margery saw a low flat couch 
pulled near the fire, with a gray head resting on the pil- 
low. She could not see the invalid's face properly, but a 
faint something in the dark eyes struck her as familiar. 

44 1 have brought my wife to see you, as I promised, 


MARGERY DAW. 


169 


Gerant, ” said the earl cheerfully, leading Margery to the 
couch. 

“ It is kind of you to come, Lady Court,” the sick man 
answered, in a faint, weak voice. “ I have known your 
husband a long, long time — years, eh, Court?’ ’ 

Where had Margery heard that voice before? It sounded 
familiar, faint and husky as it was. 

“Iam very glad to come,” she responded simply, and 
took the chair the servant pushed forward. 

“ And Margery will sing for you, if you like.” 

“ Margery!” whispered the sick man; and then he tried 
to raise his head from the pillow. “Margery!” he re- 
peated. 

“ I think Sir Douglas is ill,” said Margery, rather fright- 
ened, turning to the servant. 

“ It is weakness, my lady,” returned the man. 

“ Let me raise him .a little,” said the earl. “ I think 
he wants to speak.” In a lower tone he added to the serv- 
ant, “ He’s much weaker than he was this morning; what 
is it?/’ 

“ Spasms at the heart, my lord; his heart is very weak.” 

“ Don’t be alarmed, my darling,” whispered the earl to 
Margery. Then he put his arm round the sick, man, and 
raised him easily into a sitting posture. 

Sir Douglas tried to murmur thanks, but for a few sec- 
onds his weakness was too great. Then, as his strength 
came back, he stretched out a thin white hand to the girl 
sitting in the shadow. 

“ Come into the light,” he whispered; “ that I may see 
your face. ” 

Margery slipped her hand into the speaker’s weak trem- 
bling one, and bent toward him as the earl stirred the fire 
into a blaze. 

The girl’s eyes met the sick man’s hollow dark ones, 
which were full of strange eagerness and excitement, and 
again she seemed to remember them. 

Sir Douglas closed his long fingers over hers, and drew 
her nearer and nearer, till she bent over him. 

“Closer,” he murmured. “ Yes— I— can see— it is! 

Heaven is — good! You are — ” 

His strength seemed to fail entirely. Margery bent still 
nearer as he sunk back upon the cushion, and her heart- 


170 


MARGERY DAW. 


shaped locket escaped and dangled against his withered 
hand. 

“ He is fainting!” she said, hurriedly. “ Look how pale 
he is!” 

His eyes opened as she spoke, and wandered from her 
face to the little gold locket. A sj)asm of pain caused his 
mouth to twitch; his breath came in gasps; he tried to 
open the locket, and his eyes spoke words that his lips re- 
fused to utter. Then, as the earl drew Margery back, the 
lids closed over them, and the face became calm. 

“ It is only a faint. Come away, my darling! I wish I 
had not brought you; but he was almost well this morn- 
ing. ” 

Margery suffered her husband to lead her into the other 
room and place her in a chair. Her nerves were un- 
strung, and she was full of a vague incomprehensible ex- 
citement. 

“ Go back to him,” she murmured. “I am quite 
well. I can not leave till I know that lie. is better. Poor 
man ! How strange he looked V 9 

The earl obeyed her; and, when she was alone, Margery 
put her hands over her eyes and tried to think what the 
memory was the sick man had brought back to her. 

“ Is he better V asked Lord Court, on his return to Sir 
Douglas’s side. “ It was only a faint, Murray?” 

The man looked up from his prostrate master, and shook 
his head sadly. 

“It is the end, I fear. May I make so bold as to ask 
you, my lord, to ring that bell? I shall send to his cousin 
immediately. Mr. Stuart should come at once. I hope 
her ladyship is not frightened? Sir Douglas always seemed 
strange when he heard the name of Margery . 99 

“ She is anxious to know how he is. I will take her home, 
and return as soon as possible. Yes, send for his relatives, 
Murray. The Crosbies, you say? Well, they ought to 
come. Poor old Gerant!” 

“ Thank you kindly, my lord; I will. He will be glad 
to see you, I know, if he recovers; but I never saw him so 
bad as this before . 99 

The earl waited till he saw the heavy eyelids raised, then 
he returned to Margery. 

“ Yes, he is better, darling,” he said, in answer to her 
eager inquiry. “ Come — I will take you home; and then I 


MARGERY DAW. 


171 


will return to learn how he is progressing. Murray is go- 
ing to send to his people, the Crosbies of Crosbie Castle, 
and they will look after him.” 

“ The Crosbies of Crosbie Castle!” The words rang in 
Margery’s ears. In an instant she remembered where^she 
had met this man before. She saw once again the hot 
dusty lane, the lodge-keeper’s wife, the strange man who 
had questioned her so curiously and spoken the terrible 
words that blighted her young heart, and she knew that 
Sir Douglas Gerant and that man were one and the same. 
She stood silent, almost overcome by the conflicting feel- 
ings within her breast, and was scarcely conscious that the 
earl led her down-stairs, and she was driving home. 


CHAPTER XXIY. 

That she possessed some strange magnetic influence over 
Sir Douglas Gerant Margery did not doubt, but what it 
was she could not tell; it seemed so vague, so mysterious, 
and yet her heart was filled with great and unfathomable 
emotions. What had she in common with Sir Douglas 
Gerant? Why should he gaze at her so eagerly? She sat 
very quiet in her carriage, yet every nerve was thrilling. 

The earl noticed her manner, but attributed it to the 
sympathy she felt for the sick man. He regretted now 
that he had taken her to see his old friend, but Sir Douglas 
had seemed quite convalescent in the morning, and he had 
thought the visit might do him good. 

On reaching her room, Margery let her husband remove 
her heavy mantle and her cap without a word; then, as he 
stood looking undecided beside her, she turned to him. 

“ Please go back to him. I am all right, and I should 
like to know how he is now. ’ ’ 

“ Are you sure you are better, darling? You were quite 
frightened. ” 

“ Yes, yes! Go; perhaps you may be of some service.” 

The earl stooped and kissed her, and was soon rattling 
away in a hansom, while she sat silently thinking and won- 
dering over what had occurred. 

Lord Court found Sir Douglas restored to conscious- 
ness, but too weak to utter a word. Already there was a 
great alteration in the worn face, and the sick man’s eyes, 


172 


MARGERY DAW. 


as they wandered with a restless eagerness round the room, 
struck the earl with sudden sadness. 

“ Fve sent down to the castle,” said Murray, who was 
watching his beloved master; 44 and I've also sent to Mr. 
Stuart's club. He may be in London ; if so, he'll come as 
quickly as he can. I hope he is, for Sir Douglas would like 
to see him, I know. Many and many a time I've wanted 
to let Mr. Stuart know, but he wouldn't let me; he was 
always thinking he'd be better in a day or two, and was 
longing to be off. He has fretted so through his illness, 
my lord, it has quite worn him out.'' 

44 Have you sent for the doctors?" asked the earl. 

44 They've just gone, my lord. They didn't say- much. 

4 Give him a 'teaspoonful of brandy every half hour,' they 
said; and I know what that means, my lord.'' 

44 How wasted he is,'' thought the earl — 44 liow changed! 
I wish he could speak; he looks as if he wished to say 
something." 

He bent and asked Sir Douglas if there was anything he 
specially wanted; but the rigid lips did not move — only 
the eyes seemed to plead more than before. The earl's 
presence appeared to give him pleasure, for, if Lord Court 
moved, the thin trembling hand went out toward him, and 
Murray construed this into a wish for his friend to re- 
main. 

An hour passed without change, and the earl was think- 
ing of sending a message to Margery, explanatory of his 
long absence, when the door opened, and the sick man's 
face suddenly altered. He made a feeble attempt to rise, 
his hands moved restlessly to and fro, and his lips parted 
to speak, as a young man bent over his couch. It was 
Stuart Crosbie. 

“ Cousin,'' he said, hurriedly, with real pain on his face 
and in his voice, 44 my dear cousin, oh, why did not you 
send for me before?'' Then, turning to the servant, he 
added, 44 Murray, you should have let me know! Six 
weeks ill, and I thought him in Australia! It has distressed 
me more than I can say.'' 

44 Sir Douglas would not let me write, sir,'' replied Mur- 
ray, as he put the brandy to the invalid's lips. 4 4 Lord 
Court came in to-day, and lie's the first person as has 
been." 

44 It was a shock to me, too, Mr, Crosbie," remarked 


MARGERY DAW. 


173 


the earl. 44 Gerant and I have been old friends for years. 
I am heartily glad you have come. ” 

“You are very kind / 9 said Stuart, putting but his hand; 
“ but can not he have something to give him strength?” 
Then, turning to the invalid, he added, 44 You want to 
s]3eak to me, cousin?” 

He knelt down by the bedside as he spoke, and looked 
eagerly into the sick man's face. 

“ Sir Douglas has tried to speak, but he can not, Mr. 
Stuart — yet. ” 

“ Hush!” interrupted Stuart, putting up his hand — the 
pale lips were moving. 

44 You — will — not forget — ” 

44 My promise?" finished Stuart, gently. 44 No; every- 
thing you wish shall be done.” 

Sir Douglas fixed his eyes on Lord Court, and a faint 
sound came from his lips. The earl bent his head the bet- 
ter to hear. 

44 I can not hear,” he murmured sadly to Stuart. 

44 Give me the brandy, Murray,” said Stuart. 44 Come, 
that is right; we shall have you well and hearty soon, 
cousin,” he added to the sick man. 44 Do not distress 
yourself; I will do all I promised.” 

Sir Douglas .looked at him earnestly, as if his dark eyes 
would read his inmost heart. Then a change came over 
his face, and he smiled faintly. His head was raised for a 
minute from the pillow, and a whisper fell on their anxious 
ears : 

4 4 Gladys — wife — it — has — come — to — Margery — little — 
Mar — gery — thank — Heaven !” 

The voice died away, a convulsive tremor seized the 
heavy eyelids, which closed slowly over the dark eyes, 
glazed with a film now, the head sunk back, and with a 
sigh the spirit of Douglas Gerant fled from its earthly 
abode. 

Stuart knelt on, whilst hot tears were stealing down his 
cheeks. A solemn trust was confided to his care — of what 
nature he knew now. The ne'er-do-well, the wandering 
nature, the truant from home, had not been alone all his 
life. The name of 44 wife ” passed from his lips as death 
closed his eyes. Some tale of sadness, of disappointment, 
•was to come, and with it was linked a name that had de- 
stroyed Stuart's joy and youth — the name of 44 Margery.” 


174 


MARGERY DAW. 


A strange thrill ran through the young man's frame 
when at last he rose from his knees. There was now a 
bond of sympathy stronger than had ever existed in life 
between himself and his dead cousin. 

* ***** * 

“ It is not true! I will not believe it! The whole thing 
is a romance from beginning to end. Douglas Gerant 
always — " 

“ Mother, do not forget you are speaking of a dead 
man/' broke in Stuart Crosbie, quietly and sternly. “ I 
will not listen to such words." 

Mrs. Crosbie turned and faced her son. Stuart was 
leaning against the mantel-piece in a room of a London 
hotel, his face pale, yet determined. Mrs. Crosbie, dressed 
in heavy black robes half hidden with crape, was walking 
to and fro, vexed and wrathful. 

“ Do you mean to say you will not dispute this iniquitous 
will?" she asked, sharply. 

“ Certainly not. I have no right. It is a most just 
one." 

“ And you will let Beecham Park pass from your hands 
into the clutches of some low-born girl who has no more 
right to it than a beggar in the street?" 

“ Except the right of a daughter." 

“ Daughter!" repeated Mrs. Crosbie, with scorn. 
“ There was no marriage, and, even if such was the case, 
the girl is not to be found; he lost trace of the mother and 
child for sixteen years, and now has conjured up some 
romance about a likeness in a village wench. " 

“ Mother, you are not just or temperate. Douglas 
Gerant has set forth in this letter the sorrow of his life. 
With his dying lips he claimed my promise to fulfill his 
wishes, and I shall do so. " 

“You are mad, Stuart!" declared his mother coldly. 
“But," she added, with a sneer, “I need not look very 
far for your motive; it is for the sake of this girl, this 
Margery Daw, that you are determined to sacrifice every- 
thing. Had Sir Douglas seen a resemblance in any other 
woman, the desire to carry out his wishes might not have 
been so strong. You have no pride, Stuart, not a — " 

“I have honor, mother," Stuart interrupted, his brow 
clouded, his face stern. “You wrong me and insult me. 
The past is gone. Why bring it back? I shall do my duty 


MARGERY DAW. 


175 


for Douglas Gerant'fi sake, for honor, justice, right and 
truth's sake, and for nothing else. I shall seek out Mar- 

f ery Daw; I have pledged myself to the dead, and shall 
eep my word." 

“ And what will Vane say to this quixotic course?" 

“ Vane is a true-hearted woman; she will say I am right. 
But, should she not, then I can not help it — I am re- 
solved." 

Stuart turned to the fire as he spoke, and looked into the 
blaze with a pained, weary expression on his face. 

“ The world will call you mad," observed Mrs. Crosbie, 
crossing to the window and sinking into a chair, “ and 
Vane will be greatly displeased." 

“Vane loves me— so you say," replied Stuart quietly; 
then he turned to the table, and began to write rapidly. 

On the night after Sir Douglas Gerant's death, in the 
seel usion of his room, Stuart had broken the covering of 
the packet intrusted to his care, and read the contents. 
The funeral was over now, and the will read. Beecham 
Park was left to Stuart, with the proviso that he fulfilled 
certain conditions contained in a letter already placed in 
his hands. 

The writing was close and crabbed, but it was distinct, 
and Stuart read it easily. 

‘ 4 When I first decided upon making you my heir, Stuart, 
I determined to couple that decision with another that 
would perhaps prove as irksome to you as it has been sor- 
rowful and disappointing to me. But a new influence has 
since come into my life — hope, sweet, bright, glorious 
hope, with peace and gladness behind it. Let me tell you 
my story. 

You will have heard of your cousin Douglas Gerant as 
a scamp, a profligate, a disgrace. I was wild, perhaps 
foolish and hot-headed; but, Stuart, I never dishonored 
my name or my father's memory. My brother Eustace 
and I were never on good terms. He hated me for my 
wild spirits, my good looks, and my success with women; 
and I on my side had little sympathy with his narrow 
cramped life and niggardly ways; so one day we agreed to 
part and never to meet except when absolutely necessary. 
I left him in his dull home at Beecham Park, where his 
one idea of enjoyment was to scan rigidly the accounts of 
the estate and curtail the expenses, and went to London. 


176 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ From my mother I inherited a small income, which 
proved about sufficient for my extravagances, and I passed 
my days with a crowd of boon companions, traveling when 
and whither I pleased, just as the mood seized me. Among 
my acquaintances was one whom I held dearer than all; 
we were bound together by the firmest bond — true friend- 
ship. Conway was a handsome fellow, with a reckless, 
dare-all style that suited my wild nature, and an honest 
heart; we were inseparable. And next to him in my 
friendship was a man called Everest, a strong-willed being 
with a plain face, but having the manners of a Crichton, 
together with a fund of common sense. Everest was a 
barrier to Conway's and my wildness, and to him we owed 
many lucky escapes. We were with one accord railers at 
matrimony, and a very bad time of it any poor fellow had 
who deserted our ranks to take unto himself a wife. I 
laughed and bantered like the others, deeming myself in- 
vulnerable; yet, when I laughed the loudest, I fell wounded. 
My raillery was over, my whole nature changed. The 
laughter and jokes of my comrades jarred on me; my soul 
revolted from the lazy, useless life I was leading. I grew 
earnest and grave — I had fallen in love. I had seen a 
woman who suddenly changed the current of my life. 

i( Gladys, my angel, my sweet star! She was the niece 
of one of my mother's old friends. I rarely visit >d any of 
the old set, but one day the mood seized me to pay a visit 
to a Lady Leverick, with whom as a boy I used to be 
a great favorite; and at her house I saw my darling. 
What need to tell you all that followed? I haunted the 
house, unconscious that Lady Leverick grew colder and 
colder, heedless of all but Gladys's sweet face and glorious 
eyes. 

“ At last the dream was dispelled; her aunt spoke to 
me. Gladys was an orphan under her charge; she was 
penniless, dependent on her charity, and she would not 
have so wild, so dissolute a man even propose for the girl's 
hand. I was mad, I think, for I answered angrily; but in 
the midst of the storm came a gleam of golden light. 
Gladys entered the room, and, in response to her aunt's 
commands to retire, put out her fair white hands to me, 
and, leaning her head on my breast, whispered that she 
loved me, and that nothing should separate us. 

“ We were married. Lady Leverick refused to see, or 


MARGERY DAW. 


177 


even receive a letter from my darling; and my brother 
Eustace, in lieu of a wedding-present, sent a curt note in- 
forming me that I was a madman. A madman I was, but 
my mania was full of joy. Could heaven be fuller of bliss 
than was my life in those first three months? My income 
was all we had, but Gladys had had little luxury, and we 
laughed together over our poverty, resolutely determining 
to be strictly economical. We took a small house in St. 
John's Wood; and then began my first real experience of 
life. I sighed over 'the money I had wasted; but Gladys 
never let me sigh twice, and always declared that she 
would manage everything. Out of all my old friends I 
invited only two to our home, Guy Conway and Hugh 
Everest; but very happy little reunions we had. 

“ We were quite alone; and, though Gladys tried over 
and over again to reinstate herself with her aunt, from 
affectionate desire only, she failed. Lady Leverick would 
not see her or own her, and my darling had only me in the 
wide world. 

“ How happy I was then! Through Everest's influence 
I obtained the secretaryship of a good club, and the addition 
to our income was most welcome and helpful. 

“ The months slipped by with incredible swiftness and 
sweetness till a year was gone and our baby born. All this 
time Conway and Eveiest were our beloved and most inti- 
mate friends, and Gladys seemed to like them both. We 
christened the child Margery; but she was to me no 
earthly being — her beauty and delicacy seemed scarcely 
mortal. She was like her mother, and both were marvels 
of loveliness, so much so that Conway, who was a bit of an 
artist, insisted on painting them in angel forms. 

“ Have you ever seen a storm gather in a summer sky 
and in one moment darken the brightness of the sunshine 
with gray heavy clouds? Yes? Then you can conceive 
how my life Was changed by a swift fell stroke that almost 
crushed my manhood. I was much occupied at the club, 
and was away from home many hours. Sometimes it 
struck me, when I returned at night, that my wife's face 
was disturbed and sad; but the feeling did not last, and as 
soon as we were together the expression changed. 

“ One evening I was leaving the club, and, in passing out 
of the door to enter the cab — I could afford that luxury 
now — I felt myself touched on the arm, and, turning, 


178 


MARGERY DAW. 


found myself face to face with Hugh Everest. I welcomed 
him warmly, yet something in his manner sent a chill to 
my heart. 

“ ‘ Dismiss your cab, and walk a little way with me; I 
want to speak to you/ he said. I turned to the cabman 
and did as my friend wished. 

“ ‘ Now what is your important business, Everest?’ 

11 ‘ Have you seen Conway to-day?’ he asked, abruptly. 

“ { Conway? Yes. He came to say good-bye; he starts 
for Monte Carlo to-night. Nothing wrong with him, I 


hope?’ 

“ ‘ Not with his health. ’ 
“ I turned and looked at 
and greatly agitated. 

“ ‘If you have anything 
so at once. I can not stand 

a ( 


Everest; he was deadly pale 


to tell me,’ I said firmly, 4 do 
suspense. ’ 

Then prepare for the worst. Conway has gone to 
Monte Carlo alone; but he will be joined in Paris by a 
woman to-morrow night. That woman is your wife. ’ 

“ My hand flew to his throat, but he was prepared, and 
pushed me with almost superhuman strength against some 
railings close by. AVe were at the corner of Pall Mall, and, 
suddenly putting his arm through mine, he dragged me 
toward the steps of St. James’s Park. Here it was quiet. 
I loosed myself from his grasp. 

“ ‘ You are a coward and a villain!’ I exclaimed. e Your 
w r ords maddened me at first, but I am sane now. Great 
heavens, that you should have dared to utter such a lie 
and be alive!’ 

“ He grasped my hand with his. 

“ ‘ Keep your head cool,’ he said. * If I had not proof, 
do you think I should speak as I have done?’ 

“ ‘ Proof!’ 

“ I staggered to the steps and sunk down, burying my 
face in my hands. 

“ ‘ This afternoon,’ he went on quickly, ‘ I called at 
your house. Your wife was in, the maid said, and I en- 
tered the drawing-room. I waited several minutes, and 
then the maid returned, saying that her mistress was not 
at home after all; and, leaving a message for her, I took 
my departure. At the gate I picked up this note in Con- 
way’s hand; you can see it by the light of this lamp. It 
says, “ Come to my studio at once for final arrangements. 


MARGERY DAW. 


179 


To-morrow I trust will see the end of all your trouble, sus- 
pense, and anxiety. Then will come my reward; for you 
will trust in me henceforth forever, will you not?” I was 
stunned when I read it/ Everest went on. 4 My first im- 
pulse was to tear it into shreds and to cast it from me: but 
I thought of you, Douglas, and a vague sense of danger 
stayed me. It was still early, and I determined to go to 
Conway's studio and reason with him — demand an explana- 
tion. I went. ' 

44 Everest's voice grew husky for a moment, Stuart, 
while every word he uttered went to my heart like a knife; 
my youth died in that moment of supreme agony. 

44 4 1 went,' he continued, 4 and asked to see Conway; 
he came to me for a second, looking strangely agitated. I 
suggested staying with him till he started that evening, but 
he refused to let me, and hurried me away. I took my de- 
parture, ill at ease; for, despite his repeated asseverations 
that he had much to do, I felt he had a visitor; and my 
suspicions were only too well grounded, for, on turning my 
head when I reached the road, I saw your wife standing 
with him in the studio talking earnestly. Then I came to 
you.' 

44 4 To crush my happiness!' I exclaimed recklessly. 4 It 
was thoughtful!' 

44 4 You judge me as I feared,' he answered sadly. 
4 Well, I have done what I considered my duty; the rest it 
for you. ' 

4 4 4 The rest will be forgotten,' I answered. 

44 4 What — you will submit to dishonor, you will stand 
deceit! You will receive her kisses to-night remembering 
her lover's this afternoon! You are no longer a man, 
Gerant!' 

44 His words fanned the flame of my jealous passion to 
madness. Hitherto I liM spoken mechanically, remem- 
bering my wife's purity and sweetness; but at his taunts 
the blood in my veins became like fire. I wanted nothing 
but revenge. 

44 Everest tried to calm me, but it was useless; he had 
set the match to a train that would not be extinguished. 

44 The remainder of that night is like a hideous night- 
mare to me. I can see myself now hurrying him from the 
steps to the street and into a cab. I can remember how 
sharp was the pain at my heart when I repeated the vague 


180 


MARGERY DAW. 


yet self-condemning words of Conway's note. I can see 
again the houses seeming to fly past us as we dashed home- 
ward. I can feel again the agony I endured when, in an- 
swer to my hoarse inquiry, the maid said my wife was not 
at home. Again I can feel the agony of suspense, rage, 
madness I suffered as I strode up and down the road before 
the house, with Everest standing a little way off, watching 
me with a calm anxious face, till the sound of light feet 
came to our ears, and I stood before Gladys. 

“ I can see her pale startled face, her shrinking form, as 
in a suppressed voice I demanded to know where she had 
been. She did not answer at once, and her hesitation mad- 
dened me. I lost all manliness, Stuart. It haunts me 
now — the misery of her face, the pleading of her lips. But 
I would listen to nothing. In a flood of passionate words 
I denounced her, thrust aside her hands when they would 
have held me, and then, telling her we should never meet 
again, I rushed away, leaving her dumb and qoallid as a 
figure of stone. 

“ Once I turned to go to her — a moment of remorse in 
my madness — but Everest pushed me on, and so we part- 
ed. Everest never left me all night; he took me to his 
rooms, and sat watching me like a mother, with his grave 
face and strange earnest eyes. I was waiting only for the 
morning; then I started for Paris — for Conwav and re- 
venge! 

“ Gladys I would never see again. I left my money and 
the settlement of my affairs in Everest's hands in case of 
my death, and he promised me to look after Gladys; for, 
though I deemed her dishonored, I could not let her starve. 
He was anxious to stay in England, but I kept him beside 
me and refused to let him go. 

“ I crossed to Paris the next day, and sought everywhere 
for Conway, but could not find him. Everest grew impa- 
tient, but still I would not release him; and two days 
passed without incident. On the third day I learned that 
Conway had never left England, that he was seized with 
sudden and severe illness at Dover; and, when I reached 
that place, he was dead. 

“ Robbed of my revenge, I sunk into gloomy despond- 
ency. Everest went to London to look after my wife. My 
body seemed paralyzed ; I seemed no longer a man. My 
friend was away a week, and then returned suddenly and 


MARGERY DAW. 


181 


told me, with a strange pale face, that Gladys was gone — 
had disappeared with her child, and could not be found. 

“ My misery was so great, I scarcely realized the horror 
of this. My brain was dulled by intense pain. As in a 
dream I listened to him, hardly heeding him, and conscious 
only of a vague relief as he left me to go abroad, to shake 
oif, he said, the anxiety he had suffered. 

“ I stayed on another week or so at Dover, still in the 
same condition. Then my brain suddenly cleared; but 
my misery returned in greater force. I was mad once 
more with an agony of pain. I left Dover; it was hateful 
to me. I traveled to London. A longing, a craving seized 
me to see Gladys, to look on her once more, though she 
was dead to me forever. I drove to the house; and the 
memory of Everest’s words came back to me then — that 
she was gone. Pale and faint with anxiety, I alighted at 
the well-known gate, and I saw at a glance that the house 
was deserted. 

“ What had become of Gladys? How had she managed? 
Was she starving — lost in London, with not a friend in 
the world? In an instant my rage was quenched. I saw 
her only in her sweetness, her beauty, and I leaned against 
the gate, overwhelmed with the flood of miserable thoughts 
that crowded upon me. 

“ But it was not a time for dreams. I felt I must act. 
So I hurried to the house-agents, feeling sure that they 
could tell me something. From them I gleaned the barest 
information. My wife had visited them early in the morn- 
ing following that dreadful night, paid them the rent to 
the end of the quarter, and left the key. I questioned 
them closely and eagerly, but could gather nothing more, 
and then I went away, feeling like a man whose life was 
almost ended. Over and over again I whispered to myself, 
with a twinge of remorse, that Gladys was innocent, and 
would have explained all if I had only let her. Then the 
memory of Everest’s words, the damning evidence of Con- 
way’s note, returned, and I knew not what to think; but 
on one point I was certain — henceforth life held no duty 
for me till Gladys was found. Though the golden dream 
of our joy was ended, though I doubted her, she must be 
found and cared for. 

“ I began a search — a search, Stuart, that has lasted all 
my life. By good hap at this time a distant cousin, dying, 


182 


MARGERY daw. 


bequeathed me his property, which, though not large, 
came like a godsend at the moment, for every available 
penny I had had been expended in my search. I was 
haunted by my wife's pale horror-stricken face gleaming in 
the moonlight, by the memory of my baby-child, whose 
prattle had sounded like music in my ears. I knew too 
well the miseries, the horrors, of London, and I could not 
bear to think that the woman I had held so near and — 
Heaven help me! — still treasured in my heart, was thrown 
into its terrible jaws and left to perish without a helping 
hand. 

4 ‘ I pray Heaven, Stuart, you may never know the dark- 
ness of those days, the unspeakable anguish, the depth of 
despair! Weeks passed. I could find no trace, and when 
I was tortured with the conflicting emotions which surged 
within me an event occurred that put the last stroke to my 
misery, added the ghastly weight of a wrong to my burden, 
a wrong which I could never wipe away. 

“ I had resigned my post at the club, and, in my eager 
restlessness, wandering about the London streets, either 
alone or with one of my detectives, I was lost even to the 
remembrance of the frequenters of my old haunts. One 
day, however, I met a man who had been very friendly 
with me, and in the course of conversation — I would gladly 
have avoided him if I could — he told me there were several 
letters awaiting me at the club. None knew where to send 
them. 

“ I went for the letters, urged by a wild hope that 
Gladys might have written. She had. It was a letter 
that is graven on my heart in characters of blood. Heaven 
give me strength to tell you; for even now, after so many 
years, I grow faint when I think of it! It was a long, hur- 
riedly-written letter — the letter of a distraught woman. I 
will not give it to you here; there were no reproaches, but 
there was a clear statement of facts given by a broken 
heart. In my anxiety I could scarcely read the first lines, 
but some words further on caught my eyes, and held them 
as by magnetic power. They spoke, Stuart, of the perse- 
cution she had endured for weeks from Hugh Everest. 
Again and again, Gladys wrote, she felt urged to speak to 
me, but she knew I valued him as a friend, and she trust- 
ed that his honor, his manliness, would overcome his baser 
feelings, and that he would go away. Of Guy Conway she 


MARGERY DAW. 


183 


spoke tenderly and earnestly. The letter I had brought 
forward as a proof of their guilt was indeed written by him; 
but it referred to a painting he was engaged upon of her- 
self and her child, which she had intended leaving at her 
aunt’s house, hoping that the sight of the baby’s angel-face 
would break down the icy barrier which caused her such 
pain. This had been a little plan of his, suggested when 
lie saw how the estrangement troubled her. She was at 
Conway’s studio, but only for the purpose of discussing the 
delivery of the picture; and, catching sight of Hugh Ever- 
est, in a moment of agitation and dislike she openly ex- 
pressed a wish not to see him. Conway at once undertook 
to jirevent their meeting, with what terrible result you 
know. My wife ended her letter by stating that she was 
gone from my life forever with her child. The shock of 
my suspicions had destroyed all joy or happiness evermore 
for her; but, though separated, she would live as became 
my wife and the mother of my child, for whose sake alone 
she could now endure life. This ended it; there was no 
sign, no clew, no word to lead me to her. 

“ I was not a man, Stuart, when I had read that letter; 
I was a brute — a savage animal. Had Hugh Everest been 
near me, I should have torn his cruel heart from his body, 
and his tongue from his false, lying lips. A fury seized 
me to find him — find him, though I searched the world 
round; face to face with him, I could breathe out the pas- 
sion, remorse, revenge, scorn, and agony of my bursting 
heart. But I could not leave England till I knew where 
my darling was, my sweet, wronged angel — till I had knelt 
in the dust at her feet, and bowed my head in shame; and 
so my search went on. 

“ Years passed, but only a slight clew turned up now 
and then, always with the same ending. I have wandered 
— led by these disheartening clews — from one country to 
another; and at last the men I employed grew weary, and 
I had to work alone. But I was kept alive by my love and 
my desire for revenge. Everest never came to England — 
coward and villain — but the day came, a day not long past, 
when we met, and on his dying bed I forced him to confess 
his wrong and own his deceit. Then, when he was gone, 
the misery of my wasted life returned, and I sunk for a 
while beneath my load of care. 

“ Hope was almost dead forever when I visited you at 


184 


MARGERY DAW. 


Crosbie; and then suddenly by one of those strange, unex- 
pected chances that come to us at times, it burst into a liv- 
ing, glowing flame once more. All through the past years 
I had prayed that, should Gladys be gone, my child might 
be spared; and, Stuart, my prayer was granted. At Cros- 
bie one morning I came face to face with a girl at sight of 
whom I seemed to have stepped back into the past. I was 
startled by the image of my sweet wife. I spoke to the 
girl, learned her name — Margery Daw — and not until she 
had gone did hope wake in my breast, bringing once more 
the feeling of eager gladness that I thought dead forever. 

“ I waited a day or two, but quietly made inquiries, and 
obtained all the information I wanted; then, having first 
tested the truth and honesty of your nature, I determined 
to confide all to you, and claim my child; for that she is 
my child there is no doubt. But happiness was not to be 
grasped at once; again fate was unkind. When I made 
my way to the cottage where Margery lived, it was to find 
her gone — gone across the sea to Australia. The sudden 
pain and disappointment aside, I was myself again. Aus- 
tralia was nothing to me; I would start at once, and clasp 
my child yet in my arms before I died. 

“ So, Stuart, I leave this in your hands. If I succumb, 
seek out my Margery and give her her rights. To you I 
leave all, for I know you will do as I wish; and remember 
she is your cousin and your equal. Guard her, Stuart, 
from harm, if it be in your power, and may Heaven bless 
and reward you for all you may do! It will be necessary to 
explain how I discovered Margery to be my child. As I 
told you, I made most minute inquiries, learning all par- 
ticulars from people both in Chesterham and Hurstley. I 
sought for Dr. Scott, the medical man who had attended 
during the railway-accident; he had left Chesterham many 
years before, but he remembered the incident well, and his 
description of the poor dead woman only confirmed my 
hopes and fears. Acting upon his advice, I went to New- 
ton, and by dint of money and able men traced my dar- 
ling’s life during two long years of misery. The story of 
her sufferings, of her daily toil, her heart-broken life, I can 
not dwell on. Heaven grant you may never know the ter- 
rible agony of hopeless remorse and longing that I am now 
enduring! Despair seizes me when I remember my mad- 
ness, her wrong — my angel-wife! Even the joy of finding 


MARGERY DAW. 


185 


my child can not bring me peace. The happiness I experi- 
ence in the knowledge of her existence is tinged with 
never-dying bitterness and sorrow, for she recalls her 
mother. 

44 But I weary you with my moans, Stuart; let me get 
on with my story. Gladys then, without a friend in the 
world — for her aunt would have nothing to say to her, be- 
ing especially bitter when she learned we were separated — 
doubted and wronged, had, in addition to her other 
troubles, the hardship of poverty to face. She struggled 
to get employment, with little success however; from time 
to time she managed to make money by teaching, 
but this never for long. Still, through all her trials, her 
courage never forsook her; she lived for her child. I have 
spoken with some who knew her in those days; they dwelt 
on her sadness, her sweetness, her innate refinement, little 
knowing how their words rent my heart. It would be use- 
less to describe the hopelessness, the misery of her life; 
she parted with all her jewelry, and at last in desperation 
answered an advertisement for a situation as maid. 

4 4 Beyond this I can not write positively, but my heart 
tells me the truth. The situation that Gladys had obtained 
meant separation from her child. She had heard me speak 
of my cousins the Crosbies; and I am convinced she was 
on her way to seek protection from your mother and shelter 
for the baby before taking up her new duties, when death 
claimed her and ended her sorrows. 

44 1 inclose with this letter the certificates of our mar- 
riage and of Margery’s birth. My lawyers have in their 
possession a small box, which after my death they will 
hand to you. It contains the jewelry that belonged to my 
wife. Give it to Margery. And now, Stuart, I have 
finished. Pray befriend and guard my child as far as lies 
in your power. My heart is full of gratitude when I think 
of the good kind women who took her, a weak, helpless 
babe, and tended her so well. I have written to Lady 
Cunningham words of gratitude that sound empty com- 
pared with the feelings that prompt them ; would that I 
could have done so to the others — Mrs. Grahame and Mary 
Morris! But Death has garnered them, and the power is 
taken from me. One thing more, Stuart — lay me beside 
Gladys in the little country church-yard where kind strange 


186 


MARGERY DAW. 


hands laid her; though in life we were separated so ruth- 
lessly, let us in death be together.” 

Stuart had sat long after he had read the letter, his 
heart aching with pity for his dead cousin. The tale of 
sorrow was so heavy that for a time it banished his own 
grief; but. as he rose and paced the room, the memory of 
his duty brought all back clearly, and he saw the bitter- 
ness of the task before him. A faint wave of gladness for 
her sake was checked by the reflection that they were part- 
ed forever. Still he would be firm; he was pledged to the 
dead, and, even were the pain deadly, he would keep his 
word, seek out Margery, and give her her rights as his 
cousin and heiress to Beecham Park. 

The news that caused Mrs. Crosbie such wrath and an- 
noyance brought alarm and fear unspeakable to Vane 
Charteris's breast. This unexpected blow following on 
her unexpected success almost crushed her by its sudden- 
ness. Stuart would meet Margery, learn the truth, and 
she would be humiliated and disgraced. Moved by her anx- 
iety, she added her voice to his mother's, and endeavored 
to shake his determination to sail for Australia. She did 
not betray herself by word or look; she only spoke prettily 
of her loneliness, and of how it would be a wiser course to 
send out an agent to the antipodes in search of his new 
cousin, and not to go himself. She stored her speech with 
references to Margery's faithlessness, hoping they would 
take effect; but it was all to no purpose. Stuart was firm, 
and refused to be turned from his determination. Had 
his father added his voice to the others, he might have 
yielded; but the squire was eager that Stuart should ful- 
fill his promise, and declared truthfully that his health was 
so much .stronger that his son might leave him without 
any hesitation. So, instead of the clear sky which Vane had 
pictured to herself, clouds were gathering on all sides, and 
fear planted thorns at every step in her path, making her 
faint with apprehension and dread of exposure and dis- 
grace. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

Margery was strangely affected when she learned that 
Sir Douglas Gerant was dead. She could not banish from 
her mind the thought that in some way her presence had 
caused him distress. The earl saw her pained face, and im- 


MARGERY DAW. 


187 


mediately determined to put all business affairs aside and 
take his wife down to Court Manor. So, on the afternoon 
following her visit to the late baronet, Margery was carried 
away from London to her new home. 

When she arrived it was too dark for her to see her sur- 
roundings; but the pure freshness of the country air, the 
silence after the bustle and noise of the London streets, the 
faint soughing of the wind in the trees, brought a thrill of 
peace and gladness to her, and as she stood at the low wide 
door and gazed around the quaint rambling hall she looked 
so pleased and comforted that the earl's heart rejoiced. It 
was a delightful old-world place. The corners and crevices, 
the rooms filled with serviceable furniture of no modern 
date, the smell of the flowers, the glow of the fire-light — 
all seemed to speak of home. It was a haven of rest and 
quiet after the storm of the' past few months. And if at 
night this feeling came, it was even stronger in the morn- 
ing. As she drew her curtains aside and looked out over 
the wide vista of country Margery gave a little sigh of re- 
lief. Here she had nothing to fear, nothing to remind her 
of the past; here it would be easy to forget and grow con- 
tent. 

The pain that contracted Nugent's heart as he stood 
once more in his old home ceased when he saw the glow of 
hope, love, and happiness on his wife's delicate, lovely face, 
and he pictured to himself a future all brightness and glad- 
ness. In both their hearts, as they entered the house, the 
same memory lived — the memory of Lady Enid. Margery 
sent up a little prayer to Heaven that she might prove 
grateful to the man whose heart was so tender and true, 
whose sufferings had been so great, and he mutely thanked 
his angel-sister that ere she went she bequeathed so great a 
treasure to him as Margery. 

His whole being was so impregnated with his great love 
that he had failed to discover the true cause of Margery's 
passive gentleness. It was true he did not think her heart 
held so deep a love as his own; buftshe was young, the mar- 
riage w r as hurried, love must have time to grow. In time 
his great devotion must reap its reward. The liking she 
how had would change to love. He must be patient and 
wait. So he reasoned in his happiness, dwelling with a 
thrill of joy on the memory that Margery had neither rela- 
tives nor friends. This girl, the star of his life, had none 


188 


MARGERY DAW. 


but him to tend her, none but him to whom she could turn. 
The pleasure that Margery showed in her new home struck 
the final chord of happiness in his heart. 

The girl found much to occupy her in her new position, 
and her lovely face and kind words soon won the servant's 
hearts, already disposed to love her for her gracious influ- 
ence over their master. 

It was about the end of the week that Margery learned 
accidentally from her husband that he had neglected his 
business in town on purpose to bring her away, and, with- 
out a moment's hesitation, she begged him to return and 
complete his arrangements. The earl demurred, but at 
last, satisfied that she would not be lonely, he agreed, and 
departed, leaving many tender injunctions with her to take 
great care of herself in his absence. 

The yopng wife felt a pang of remorse at the relief and 
pleasure she experienced when quite alone. She struggled 
hard with herself day and night; but to forget was so 
hard, and to remember so easy. Though she was sur- 
rounded by all that the world holds dear, she found no sat- 
isfaction in her wealth; her mind was lost to the present — 
it would persistently wander to the past — that past which, 
despite its pain and humiliation, was so sweet. The return 
to the country had brought back so much that was linked 
with her brief love-dream that the struggle seemed to grow 
greater day by day. 

Pauline noticed her mistress's grave sad face, but attrib- 
uted it to his lordship's absence, and, to cheer her. would 
repeat the servants' tales and anecdotes of his goodness, 
little thinking that every word went to Margery's heart like 
a sword thrust. She regretted with a deep unspeakable 
grief that she had been silent with Lady Enid; had she but 
spoken of Stuart and of her unhappiness, all would have 
been different, and she would not have pledged her vows to 
this man, the depth of whose generosity, tenderness, and 
devotion touched her with acute pain. If she could but 
give him in return one half the love he bestowed on her, 
she would be happier; but her love was dead, buried in a 
past summer dream, and she had nothing left for him. 

‘ ‘ The loves and hours of the life of a man, 

They are swift and sad, being born of the sea — 
Hours that rejoice and regret for a span, 

Born with a man’s breath mortal as he — 


MARGERY DAW. 


189 


Loves that are lost ere they come to birth, 

Weeds of the wave without fruit upon earth, 

I lose what I long for, save what I can — 

My love, my love, and no love for me! ‘ 

“ It is not much that a man can save 

On the sands of life, in the straits of time, 

Who swims in sight of the great third wave 
That never a swimmer shall cross or climb — 

Some waif washed up with the strays and spars 
That ebb-tide shows to the shore and the stars, 
Weed from the water, grass from the grave, 

A broken blossom, a ruined rhyme.” 

Yes, that was all that remained now, “ a broken blos- 
som, a ruined rhyme. 99 Her life might be sweet again, but 
it would never be as it was on that evening in Weald Wood, 
when her young heart was first touched by love. 

Lord Court was absent two days; then he suddenly an- 
nounced his intended return. Margery was wandering in 
the gardens and the pleasance when Pauline brought the 
telegram to her. With a vague sense of apprehension, 
Margery tore it open. 

“ Your master returns to-night, and brings a guest. 
Tell Mrs. Perry to see that the rooms are prepared, Pau- 
line. 9 9 

Pauline nodded her head in a self-satisfied manner. 

“ I am glad. Milord will be welcome; it is so gloomy 
here for miladi alone. Ah, and miladi will make a grand 
toilet to-night?” 

“ I leave myself in your hands, Pauline,” returned Lady 
Court, with a faint smile, which vanished when she was 
left alone. 

Her husband was returning again ! Once more she would 
suffer the agony of pain and remorse in his presence; but 
she must be strong, and remember only her duty and how 
much she owed him. 

The afternoon wore away, and evening was drawing on. 
It was dark and gloomy, one of those unpleasant days that 
come in November. Margery walked to and fro, till she 
was wearied, and then turned into a small room that she 
had chosen for her boudoir. She gave the order for the 
carriage to be sent to meet the earl, and sunk down before 
the fire, resting her head on a low velvet chair. She wore 
a heavy mourning-robe, simple yet costly, and her delicate 


100 


MARGERY DAW. 


face and tliroat gleamed with so dark a setting. She 
was altered from the Margery of the summer, yet her 
face was only a child's face. Her youth, the purity 
of her countenance, her deep sapphire eyes her curly 
silken masses of red-gold curls, were the admiration of 
Pauline. She brought her mistress some tea, served in 
fragile Sevres china, and then stood for an instant and 
looked down on the face that was so fair in the fire-glow. 

44 Miladi is tired," she said, sympathetically; 44 she walks 
so much . 99 

44 1 am a little weary," Margery answered, waking from 
her thoughts; 44 but that is ended now, I hope." 

She spoke to herself more than to the maid; her mind 
was on the one subject that had engrossed her all the after- 
noon. Pauline smiled; she thought she understood the 
meaning of her words. 

44 Ah, milord is to return!" she decided, and went away 
to her room. 

Margery sat on before the fire. The tea had revived her, 
yet she seemed strangely agitated as the time drew near for 
her husband's arrival. A vague sense of approaching 
trouble had come over her, and she put her hand to her 
heart to try to stay its quick, hurried beat. She had been 
thinking so deeply that her nerves were unstrung. The 
solitude had tried her, she told herself; yet, even as she 
whispered this, her heart began to flutter again. It was a 
strange, incomprehensible feeling, a feeling she had never 
experienced before, and she longed for, yet dreaded, her 
husband's return. 

At last the sound of wheels caught her ear, and she rose 
from her seat. 

44 1 will be firm — I must forget!" she whispered. 44 My 
love, good-bye, good-bye!" 

Then she heard the sound of voices in the hall and knew 
that her husband was close at hand. She turned to greet 
him as the door opened, and in the dim light she saw r two 
men enter. 

44 Margery, my wife!" said Nugent's grave, tender voice; 
and his lips touched hers. 

His companion not coming forward, the earl still holding 
Margery's hand looked aromid. 

44 1 have brought a friend home, darling. It is only a 
flying visit, as he is off to Australia; - but I persuaded him 


MARGERY DAW. 


191 


to come for a few days. There will be a bond of friendship 
between you through poor Gerant. Crosbie, let me intro- 
duce you to the Countess of Court. ” 

The stranger moved forward mechanically into the light. 
Margery’s hand grasped her husband’s. She raised her 
eyes, and, with a sudden agony of pain, saw her lover, 
Stuart, before her. 

She tried to otfer her hand, but the effect was too much. 
A mist dimmed her vision, her brain reeled, and she fell 
to the ground, pale and unconscious, at her husband’s 
feet. 

Pauline rushed in as the bell rang loudly. She pushed 
aside the earl as, in terror and alarm, he knelt beside his 
wife, never noticing that Stuart Crosbie stood silent in the 
center of the room, his hand grasping a chair. 

“ It is nothing!” cried the maid, raising Margery’s 
beautiful head. “ Miladi will walk, and bring the fatigue. 
Miladi has been desolee in milord’s absence, and now it is 
the joy. See, she recovers, milord! Leave me with her 
alone. She will be well.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

At midnight, while the clouds were driven across the 
moon by the wind, Stuart Crosbie sat in his chamber at 
Court Manor, his arms folded, his head bent dejectedly 
upon his breast. He was stunned by the strange events of 
the past day. He could never tell how he had borne him- 
self through the long evening, though every incident was 
graven on his heart forever. He could not grasp the mean- 
ing of what had taken place. He met the earl at his club, 
having a little time to spai’e before the vessel sailed, and he 
accepted Lord Court’s invitation with a vague feeling that 
he should escape the reproaches, mute and open, which 
otherwise he must hear in town. The earl had taken a 
sudden liking to the young man; and, some rumor reach- 
ing his ears as io Stuart’s proposed voyage to Australia, he 
begged the nephew of his old friend to honor him. with a 
short visit before his departure. So Stuart had assented, 
hardly heeding whither he went, his mind occupied with 
the task before him to find his cousin Margery; and in the 
twilight, with the fire-light revealing her loveliness, he had, 


192 


MARGERY DAW. 


with a shock that stunned him, come suddenly face to face 
with the girl he sought the girl he loved. 

It was so strange, so incomprehensible. A feeling of 
acute pain came to him. At the sight of Margery his love 
rose up again in all its vigor, full of bitterness and despair, 
however, for she was a wife. He sat on in the chill night 
hours, his brain full of disturbing thought. The mystery, 
the suddenness of the whole thing seemed to stun him, to 
crush his very being. During the whole evening he had 
sat listening to his host's voice, and answering in monosyl- 
lables. Margery did not appear; of that he was only too 
distinctly- conscious. The rest was a blank. And now he 
was alone, bewildered, tormented by pain, despair, love. 
His journey was ended before it had commenced, for he 
had found Sir Douglas Gerant's daughter, found the owner 
of Beecham Park. In the morning he must unfold his 
tale, and then — go from her forever. 

He rose, and approaching the window, opened it. How 
came Margery hither? he asked himself. What strange 
fate had brought him to her at that very moment? What 
story would he hear on the morrow? Had he wronged — 
doubted his love? A cold shudder seized him at the very 
thought. With an effort he put it from him. What could 
Margery say in self-defense? She had deceived — cruelly 
deceived him. Whatever the cause, he could not forget 
that. What explanation would she give him? Perhaps 
none; and he had no right to demand any. The difficulties 
of the situation seemed to become greater and greater as he 
pondered it in his mind. He moved from the window, and 
walked slowly up and down the room. Margery, the girl 
he had loved, trusted, revered, the girl he was about to 
seek in a far-distant clime, w r as under the same roof with 
him at that very instant, the wife of his host, the Earl of 
Court. It was inexplicable. His mind could find no solu- 
tion to the problem; he could but wait for morning light. 

Stuart was not the only one who was awake and dis- 
turbed that night. Margery, clad in a silk dressing-gown 
as white as her cheeks, was pacing the floor of her cham- 
ber. She had pleaded illness, and begged to be left with 
Pauline; and, once alone, she sent her maid into the dress- 
ing-room and fought the battle with herself in solitude. If 
sorrow, despair, anguish, had come to her before, they 
visited her now with redoubled force. It seemed to her 


MARGERY DAW. 


193 


the very irony of fate, a mockery of her good intentions, 
that she should be so tried at such a moment — a moment 
when she had thought herself a conqueror over her weak- 
ness. Of what avail had been her struggles, her earnest 
prayers, her resolutions? The sight of Stuart's grave hand- 
some face, the intoxication of his presence, had left her 
weak; the memory of his insults, his deceit, had banished 
everything but the knowledge that she loved him still. She 
longed for the weary night to pass, yet dreaded the coming 
of morning, when she must meet him, speak to him, when 
his every word would be as a dagger thrust into her heart. 

Dawn was creeping over the sky when, thoroughly wear- 
ied and ill, she flung herself upon her bed. As she lay, * 
her eyes fell on the sapphire ring that she wore, and the 
memory of Enid — her patience, her suffering, her courage 
— stole into her heart. Then her mind wandered to her 
husband, and to all his great goodness; and, remembering 
this, she sent up a fervid prayer for strength to do her duty 
to this man; and, as the sighing plea left her heart, she 
grew comforted. 

“ And grief shall endur<? not forever, I know; 

As things that are not shall these things he; 

We shall live through seasons of sun and of snow, 

And none be grievous as this to me. 

We shall hear, as one in a trance that hears 
The sound of time, the rhyme of the years; 

Wrecked hope and passionate pain will grow 
As tender things of a springtide sea. 
***** 

Stuart left his room early, and despite the cold, gloomy 
morning, made his way into the grounds to think, and 
nerve himself for the coming ordeal. He looked pale and 
wan; his eyes had never closed all night, his restless 
thoughts had never left him. His task was ended, he told 
himself — his cousin was founi. He must just state the 
truth, and then go away from her fair, false sweetness 
back to the long, straight path of duty, back to the woman 
who had loved him so long and so well, back to his pledged 
word and the burden of life. 

He was walking to and fro beneath the leafless trees, 
his heart almost as dead and withered as the leaves be- 
neath his feet, when a cheery voice hailed him, and, turn- 
ing, he saw the earl. 


194 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ You are out early, Crosbie,” cried Lord Court, as he 
approached. I saw you from my windows. ” Then, in 
a tone of surprise, he added: “ But you look ill: is any- 
thing the matter?” 

“ I did not sleep well,” returned Stuart, hurriedly, 
“ for I have had a shock. I am going to tell you all about 
it.” 

“ A shock!” repeated the earl, with the smile. “ Don 't 
say the manor is haunted. I believe it is most unorthodox 
not to have a family ghost, but I have never heard yet that 
we have one.” 

“ It is not a ghost! it is a reality. I meant to have 
spoken to you last night, but I was so surprised that I 
could hardly realize the truth of what I saw. I will explain 
now.” 

“ Come in-doors,” said Lord Court, looking a little be- 
wildered; “ it is scarcely sultry out here. Now, Crosbie, 
I am all attention — begin,” as they entered the house. 

“ You are aware I was about to start for Australia next 
week. Do you know why?” 

“ No,” answered the earl; “ and, to tell you the candid 
truth, I was just a little puzzled as to the cause of your 
hasty departure . 9 ’ 

“ It was to fulfill a wish of my dead cousin, Douglas 
Gerant. He left a daughter; it was in search of her I 
was to sail on Thursday next. ” 

(l A daughter! Why, I never knew Gerant was married!” 

“ It was a secret,” said Stuart; “ but I have the whole 
history in a letter which he confided to my care. Now 
comes the strange part of the story. This daughter was 
thought to be in Australia, was even traced to that part of 
the world, when suddenly, as I am about to start to find 
her, by one of those extraordinary turns of fate, I come 
face to face with the cousin I seek — here — in your house!” 

Lord Court stood still and looked at Stuart earnestly. 

“ In my house!” he echoed, slowly, as if doubting his 
ears. “ Who is it?” 

“ Your wife.” 

“ My wife — Margery! You are jesting!” 

“ Jesting!” repeated Stuart, grimly. “ I was never so 
serious in all my life! Sir Douglas Gerant 's lost daughter 
bore the name of Margery Daw. She was placed in a home 
in Hurstley — my native village. Evidence was forthcom- 


MARGERY DAW. 195 

ing that she had gone to Australia with Reuben Morris, 
the husband of the woman she had called mother. I knew 
her well; and last night, when I came face to face with her, 
I was overwhelmed by the discovery that Margery Daw and 
the Countess of Court were one and the same person. ” 

Lord Court passed his hand across his brow. 

“ I can not think clearly yet/' he said, slowly; “ the 
news is rather sudden.” He paused for a little. “ There 
is no mistake— you are sure?” 

“ I am sure,” answered Stuart, emphatically. 

The earl was silent for a. minute, then his face cleared 
and brightened. He put out his hand to Stuart, who 
grasped it silently. 

c< I can think and speak now. My darling has found 
her rights, and she is your cousin. The feeling of friend- 
ship for you which came so strongly to me, Crosbie, has 
now a solid basis beneath it. How happy she will be! And 
yet it is sad, at one and the same moment, almost, to find 
a father and to lose him. Fate must have led her to his 
bedside on that day. Thank Heaven he saw her once be- 
fore he died ! Come — let us go in and tell her. Words 
seem so feeble to-day that I can not express half of what I 
feel. The mystery of her birth has hung over my darling 
like a dark cloud; and now by Heaven's mercy it is gone, 
and she will be free and happy.” 

They turned and walked in silence along the hall. Pau- 
line was tripping down the stairs. 

Miladi is in- the south room — she would attend the 
dejeuner ,” the girl said; and the earl walked quickly 
down a long corridor to a door hung with heavy curtains. 

“ We will tell her now,” he whispered; and in another 
moment they were in the room. 

Stuart's vision was obscured for the first few seconds, 
then it cleared, and he saw a slender, graceful girl with 
fair pale cheeks and a wreath of red-gold curls before him. 
She had her hand clasped in the earl's; and, as his senses 
returned, Stuart saw her deep-blue eyes grow dark with 
surprise, and her face become whiter than the folds of the 
heavy serge gown that draped her. 

In a soft, low voice, tender and passionate, the earl told 
her all; and Margery stood beside him, hearing nothing 
save the words: 


196 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Sir Douglas Ger ant’s daughter, the cousin of Crosbie, 
my friend.” 

Stuart drew back while the earl murmured soothing 
words in her ear, and she gradually awoke to the reality. 

“ He was my father,” she said, dreamily; then, with a 
sudden rush of remembrance — “Ah, now I understand 
all ! ” She sunk into a chair and buried her face in her hands. 
Presently she rose, saying to the earl, “ Tell me every- 
thing.” 

Lord Court put his lips to her hand. 

Crosbie will do that, my darling; he is your cousin 
now, you must remember. Give him your hand, and bid 
him welcome to your home as your kinsman and your 
friend; you were too ill last night to do so.” 

Margery’s heart seemed to stand still; then, nerving her- 
self for the effort, she stretched out her hand. 

“ You are welcome, cousin,” she said, in a faint voice. 

Their fingers met for an instant, then dropped apart; 
and Margery turned away, feeling that the agony of this 
meeting was almost greater than she could bear. 

The earl drew her gently toward him. She was too 
weak to offer any resistance — was even glad of the sup- 
port; and, standing with her husband’s arm around her, 
Margery heard the story of her father’s sorrow and her 
mother’s martyrdom slowly but distinctly from Stuart 
Crosbie’s lips. The words went home to her heart; the 
despair, the misery, caused her unspeakable pain; and 
tears rained from her eyes. 

The earl, wrapped up in his thought for his wife, took 
no notice of Stuart’s agitation and pallor. He did not 
think it strange that the young squire of Crosbie Castle 
should have been so surprised at seeing Margery. His sis- 
ter had told him the girl’s history, as she had heard it from 
Miss Lawson, and, remembering that his wife had been 
called a village girl, it was not likely her actions would be 
known at the castle. He only felt a great wave of grati- 
tude and happiness fill his heart. The mystery of her birth 
solved, Margery would now be content, and there would be 
no barrier to their complete happiness. 

As Stuart spoke of Beecham Park, Margery raised her 
head. 

“ The estate is mine?” she said, slowly. 

“ You are the next heir,” answered Stuart. 


MARGERY DAW. 


197 


“ Therefore you are a great lady/* put in Lord Court, 
smiling. “ Beecham Park is one of the finest places in 
England. But come, Crosbie; sit down. This has been a 
morning of surprises, but we must eat, or we shall sink 
beneath them altogether. You must pay us a long visit 
now, for you have no reason to go— has he, Margery? 
When there was Australia to consider, it was another 
thing. * * 

So the earl chatted on, eager to rouse Margery from the 
dreams into which she had fallen; and with a glance at 
Stuart he adroitly turned the conversation and plunged into 
other topics. 

Margery sat silent. She could not eat — her brain was in 
a whirl; and at last she could bear her distress no longer, 
and with a murmured apology she went slowly to the door. 

“Yes, rest, my darling/* said Lord Court, as he fol- 
lowed her — “ this news has been too much for you; but, 
beofre you go, tell your cousin that if he departs it will be 
at the risk of your grave displeasure. ** 

Stuart had risen, and their eyes met. 

“You will stay/* she said, faintly; and then the door 
closed, and she was gone. 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

Should he go or stay? w r as the burning question in 
Stuart*s mind all that morning. Duty and honor bade 
him tear himself away; yet there was something mysterious 
and altogether apart from the inthrallment of Margery*s 
presence that kept him. He spent the long hours walking 
about the grounds with the earl, forcing himself to discuss 
the aH-important subject of Margery *s birth the while he 
was growing faint and weary with the struggle that raged 
within him. 

The surprise, the sleepless night, the agitation at last 
began to tell; and, as the afternoon advanced, Stuart was 
obliged to confess that he was quite exhausted and could 
walk no further. 

The earl was full of contrition for his thoughtlessness. 

“ Come back to the house. Would you prefer to go to 
your own room ? If not, rest in my { den. * I can answer 
for its silence and coziness. ** 


198 


MARGERY DAW. 


Stuart preferred the £ ‘ den;” the misery of the previous 
night haunted him — he hated the thought of his luxurious 
bedroom. The earl led the way to the north wing of the 
house, and, going to the extreme end of a corridor, pushed 
open the door of an apartment that seemed to warrant his 
statement. It was three-cornered anti quaint, and at the 
end branched off into another room which led through a 
long French window to the grounds. Lord Court closed 
the door between the two rooms, and pushing a chair to 
the fire, made his guest comfortable, handing him at the 
same time the batch of newspapers that had just arrived 
from London. 

“ Now you are settled/* he said, genially. “ You look 
as if sleep would not come amiss; and, such being the 
case, I shall have no hesitation in leaving you. I must 
drive to Beverley Town, a good distance away; I have an 
important interview on hand with a troublesome tenant. I 
shall be back, however, before dinner. -Are you sure you 
won't be bored?” \ 

Stuart replied in the negative, and, after seeing him 
cozily ensconced, Lord Court quitted the room, and made 
his way to the stables. 

Left to himself, Stuart leaned back wearily, and gave 
way to thought. Once again the struggle raged between 
duty and desire. Tho love that he had thought was treas- 
ured only for his ideal lived for the woman who had de- 
ceived him, and swept away all memory of that other girl 
who through all her trouble and sorrow had soothed and 
helped him. There was everything to call him away, yet 
he felt he could not go until he had gazed once more on 
the delicate beauty that had seemed to him the personifica- 
tion of truth and sweetness in the summer that was gone. 
There was something altogether strange and incompre- 
hensible in Margery's marriage. The earl had casually 
mentioned the love that his dead sister had had for his 
wife, and Stuart would have followed up the remark in 
order to learn how it was that the village girl had become 
the Countess of Court; but the earl would talk of nothing 
but Sir Douglas Gerant and the wonderful discovery of his. 
daughter. 

Stuart took up his paper and forced himself to read; but 
the words seemed to run into each other, and his mind re- 
fused to be diverted from the mystery and perplexity that 


MARGERY DAW. 


199 


tormented it. As he lay back wearily gazing into the glow- 
ing coals, he saw his duty clearly — -he must leave the 
manor and put every barrier between Margery and himself. 
Vane had been true, faithful, devoted; to her he would 
return, and by earnestness and determination try to thrust 
out all remembrance of his false love from his heart, and 
forget that she even existed. 

The struggle was ended now, he told himself; his path 
was clear and well defined. A sense of peace stole over 
him; the fire-light flickered amid the fast-growing shadows. 
Stuart's head drooped, his eyes closed, and his troubled 
spirit was soothed in slumber. 

The afternoon grew into winter dusk; the fire had set- 
tled in a glowing mass of red embers, and not a sound dis- 
turbed the silence. Presently the door was ojjened gently, 
a white hand pushed aside the curtain, and Margery stood 
in the room. As her eyes fell on Stuart's motionless form, 
her heart gave one great leap, then sunk again; she let her 
gaze rest with unspeakable sadness and tenderness on her 
lost lover's face, then she turned to go. She moved away 
softly, and her hand was on the door, when a sound came 
from behind : 

“ Margery!" 

She turned at once, to see Stuart with his hand out- 
stretched. 

“I am sorry," she faltered faintly. “ I did not know 
you were here. I came to find my husband; I have dis- 
turbed you. " 

Stuart's hand fell, and he bowed his head to the arm of 
the chair. 

“ You are ill!" Margery went on quickly. “ Let me — " 

Stuart raised his head and rose to his feet, steadying 
himself with one hand on the chair. 

“ I was dreaming," he answered hurriedly; “ but I am 
awake now, Lady Court. " 

The color faded from Margery's face. 

“ Your husband has gone to Beverley Town," Stuart 
continued, in a voice that sounded strange in his own ears. 
“ He settled me comfortably in his own ‘ den ' before 
starting, and told me that he would be home to dinner. " 

Margery bowed her head and turned toward the door, 
when Stuart moved forward as if to arrest her. 

“ As I shall leave you this evening," he said hurriedly, 


200 


MARGERY DAW. 


44 I will take the present opportunity of informing you that 
the letter and proofs I spoke of this morning shall be sent 
to you as soon as jDOSsible.” 

44 You are very kind,” responded Margery, as calmly as 
possible; 44 thank you for all you have done.” 

There was a pause. Margery felt as if some strong un- 
known power held her to the spot; she wished to move 
away, yet could not; and Stuart let his eyes rest on her fair 
loveliness, feeling that his resolution to depart was growing 
weaker and weaker as he gazed. 

44 I have done nothing,” he said almost harshly, trying 
to hide his agitation. 

4 * It is all so new and strange,” murmured the girl, put- 
ting one hand to her throat and speaking as if to herself. 
44 How often we have discussed the story of my mother, yet 
how far we were from the truth! And we were cousins all 
the time. ” 

44 What use is there in recalling the past?” asked the 
young man hoarsely. 44 It can bring nothing but pain. ” 

Margery looked up at his jDale drawn face. 

44 Pain,” she repeated slowly. 44 1 wonder if you know 
what pain I have suffered . 9 * 

She spoke unconsciously, urged by the memory of all 
her sorrow, her girlish despair and her humiliation. 

44 What should give you pain?” cried Stuart harshly, 
folding his arms in his agitation. 44 You have riches, 
title — you can do as you will — you are Lady Court.” 

The bitterness of his voice went to her very heart. 

44 How cruel you are!” she murmured, her head drop- 
ping upon her breast. 

44 Cruel!” he repeated, moving to her side, mad with the 
intoxication of his love and the remembrance of her deceit. 
44 Were you not cruel when you coquetted with me, led me 
on, lied to me, and then deceived me?” 

44 Deceived you! What do you mean?” 

Stuart met her clear blue eyes, startled yet strangely 
steadfast. 

44 Why do you say such wicked, such cruel things of 
me?” she asked. 

Stuart hesitated for a moment; a sudden strange fear 
crept into his heart. 

4 ^ You may give them other names,” he said huskily. 
f4 1 call it deceit, I call it wickedness to act as you did — to 


MARGERY DAW. 


201 


laugh at me, to send false tender messages the while you 
were fooling another man, and suddenly to leave the vil- 
lage for him, forgetting me and all the words you had 
spoken only three days before.-” 

Margery had moved slowly to the table. She still wore 
the long robe of white serge that she had donned in the 
morning. She looked up at Stuart, mystified and pained 
by his words. She put one hand on the table and gazed 
at her old lover, whose arms were still folded across his 
breast. 

“I do not understand,” she said, distinctly yet faintly. 
“ You accuse me of deceit. ” 

“ Let me recall the past/" returned Stuart, letting his 
hands drop to his sides, while he moved nearer to her. 
“ On the day we plighted our troth, the words I spoke, 
Margery, were from my heart, not lightly meant or lightly 
given, but solemn and serious; while yours — ” 

“ While mine,” she cried, raising her head proudly, 
“ live as truly in my heart now as they did on that day! 
Ah, what have I said?” 

She moved to a chair, and, flinging herself into it, buried 
her face in her hands, while he stood as he was, hardly 
realizing what it was that caused the sudden glow within 
his breast, the unspeakable happiness that possessed him. 
In a moment, however, Margery rose; pride had come to 
her aid. She looked at him steadily, her two small hands 
clasped. 

“ You have accused me of deceit,” she said, “ spoken 
words insulting to a true woman; but it is what I should 
have expected from the man who trampled on a girl's heart, 
her life, as you did on mine. Ah, how wrongly I judged you ! 
I thought you a hero, a king; you proved yourself mean, 
dishonorable, despicable ! ' 9 

She drew a quick breath, then went on, not noticing 
that his face had grown as pale as her own. 

“ I was only a village girl, a plaything of the hour, 
sufficient to amuse you when you were dull, a toy to be 
tossed aside when I had given you all the amusement you 
wanted. It was nothing to you what might come to me— I 
served your purpose. In my foolish ignorance I gave you 
all my heart; I let you see how deeply I loved you; and, 
in return, you went back to your cousin, your equal, and 
laughed at my foolish weakness as a good joke. You to 


MARCtERY daw. 


202 

talk of deceit, of lies— you, who offered me such insults, 
sending me money through her — money, Stuart, when my 
heart was breaking!” 

She paused, her hands pressed close to her heart, which 
beat most painfully. Stuart moved nearer to her; he put 
one hand on her arm. 

“ Insults — money!” he echoed, in a hard, quiet voice 
between his clinched teeth. “ What do you mean?” 

“ What do I mean? I mean the humiliation you offered 
me when you sent that cruel, beautiful woman, your cou- 
sin, to me, with cold, insulting words and an offer of money 
as a cure for all I might suffer!” 

Stuart’s hold tightened on her arm. 

“ Vane offered you insults — money!” he said, incredu- 
lously. 

4 4 Yes,” replied Margery. Then, as he turned away 
with a groan, she added, hurriedly: “You did not send 
her, Stuart?” 

“ Send her? Great heavens! you ask me that?” 

The girl drew back, frightened by the agony in his voice, 
and he moved to the fire-place, leaning one arm on it for 
support, with his face turned from her. 

“ Tell me what happened,” he said, after a brief 
pause. 

Margery drew a quick breath, and then, in a low, sad 
voice, she spoke of her sorrow at Mary Morris’s death, her 
trouble because of his accident, her meeting with Sir 
Douglas Gerant, and the words he had spoken. Then she 
told him of Robert Bright’s proposal, and of the horror and 
agony of Vane’s visit, the result of which was that she de- 
termined to leave the village at once, and to that end 
sought the help of Miss Lawson. A few sad words told of 
Enid’s death and her marriage. 

Stuart never moved during the recital; his heart seemed 
turned to stone. He dared not think of his love — the 
misery of his loss maddened him; it was of the treachery 
and cruelty he thought; and his brain whirled at the 
memory. 

“ And you believed that of me?” he asked, almost 
mechanically. 

“ It seemed so true,” murmured the girl, wistfully; 
then, pressing her hands together, she whispered, “ And 
it was not?” 


MARGERY DAW. 


203 


“ It was false from beginning to end!” 

Their eyes met, and a shudder passed over each. Mar- 
gery felt her heart grow cold as ice, a lump rise in her 
throat. 

“ AVe were deceived,” she said, faintly. 

“Yes.” 

“Forgive me — oh, forgive me!” she cried. “Howl 
have wronged you!” 

Stuart clasped her hand with his own, then dropped 
upon his knees at her feet, and pressed his lips to her 
fingers. 

“ Forgive you!” he said, pasisonately. “ It is from you 
forgiveness must come, my sweet, my love! I shall kneel 
at your feet till you have pardoned me, Margery, my dar- 
ling!” 

“Oh, hush!” she whispered. “Forgive you? Yes, a 
hundred times! Indeed, it is all forgotten now, forgotten 
and done with. ” 

“ Forgotten!” cried Stuart. “ Ah, no!” 

“We were brave in words on that day, Stuart,” said 
Margery, gazing at the fire. “ How little we guessed that 
the battle would begin that very moment, the fight be so 
long! We were so happy, and now — ” 

“ And now,” he said, hoarsely, rising to his feet, “ life 
is ended forever! You are not free. I find you and lose 
you forever at the same time. What have w T e done that 
fate should be so hard, so cruel!” 

Margery felt the gladness, the triumphant joy, die out 
of her heart, her senses grow numb and heavy; she came 
back from the happy past to the present, she remetnbered 
all. 

“ Stuart,” she said, slowly and impressively, “it is too 
late to speak of that; we must part now, never to meet 
again. ” 

“ Never to meet again!” he repeated, raising his head 
from his hands. “ Oh, no, no— that is too much! Let 
me see you, hear you speak. If you are taken from me 
now, the darkness will be too terrible. Ah, Margery, have 
some pity! Think of our love, our dream; do not send me 
from you.” He seized her hands in his, and half drew 7 her 
into his arms; but, as his eyes fell on her pale, troubled 
face, he loosed his hold, and, standing upright before her, 
said, rapidly, “ Yes, I will go— I will go to the uttermost 


204 


MARGERY DAW. 


parts of the earth— to death — if only you will tell me that 
you love me, have ever loved me, and me only!” 

Margery buried her face in her hands. She was silent 
for a few seconds, and then she looked up. 

44 1 am a wife, Stuart,” she replied, slowly, drawing her 
breath as if in pain; 44 at the side of a death-bed I took 
upon me the most solemn and sacred vows. My husband 
is good; the depths of his nobility and generosity you could 
never fathom. To speak such words would be dishonora- 
ble, would be a sin. I can say no more.” 

Stuart’s head fell forward on his breast; the soft, sad 
tones touched his manliness to the core. 

44 Forgive me!” he said, huskily. 44 You are right — we 
must part; I will leave Court Manor as soon as possible.” 

44 It will be best.” 

The words fell almost coldly from her lips; her eyes 
were closed in pain, her face was pale and drawn. She 
paused an instant, then moved slowly from the fire, from 
the proximity of the man bowed down by his despair. She 
seemed almost overwhelmed by the magnitude of this new 
sorrow; but, though she looked so frail and delicate, she 
possessed unusual courage. Her pride and honor sup- 
ported her in this worst of all her troubles. The future, 
with its bitterness, stood before her; she had to face life — 

“ If that may be called life 

From which each charm of life lias fled — 
Happiness gone with hope and love 
In all but breath already dead.” 

And brave the struggle she would, though it broke her 
heart. 

At the door she turned. The sight of Stuart’s grief 
struck her painfully; she held out her hand, urged by an 
uncontrollable impulse. 

44 Stuart!” she said, faintly. 

He was beside her in an instant. 

44 If you value what I say,” she whispered, as he clasped 
her hand, 44 you will be brave. l)o not speak of your life 
as ended. We both have duties. We have been tried; 
but Heaven has been very good, for the clouds of doubt 
and suspicion that hung over our hearts have been dis- 
pelled. To know the truth is happiness and comfort — let 
us be grateful and not murmur. How, good-bye.” 


MARGERY DAW. 


205 


Their eyes met, and he bent his head till Ms lips touched 
her small, cold, trembling hand. 

“I will remember, cousin / 9 he responded; “good- 
bye.” 

The curtain was moved aside, then fell back again to its 
place, and Stuart Crosbie was alone. 

“ Tlien came the bitter hours, and broke 
Thy heart from mine away, 

And tearfully the words we spoke 
We were so loath to say. 

Farewell, farewell, world so fair! 

Farewell, joy of soul! 

“ Farewell. We shall not meet again 
As we are parting now; 

I must my beating heart restrain, 

Must veil my burning brow. 

Oh, those are tears of bitterness 
Wrung from the beating heart; 

When two, blest in their tenderness, 

Must learn to live apart!” 
***** 

Stuart stood by the fire alone, heedless that the embers 
were slowly dying, heedless of the dusk that filled the room, 
heedless of all save his burden of misery. He was too weak 
to grapple with his sorrow — too prostrate, from the fresh- 
ness and poignancy of his grief, to overcome it. At last he 
roused himself; he had to act, not think. He raised his 
head, looked round in a dazed, troubled way, and, with a 
weary step, went slowly from the room. 

As the sound of his footsteps died away, the door of the 
inner room was opened and a man approached the fire — a 
man from whose face all joy and happiness had fled, in 
whose dark eyes a world of speechless agony glowed, round 
whose mouth dwelt the desolation of hopelessness. He 
stood erect for an instant, then with a deep groan buried 
his face in his hands and sunk into a chair. 

It was Margery's husband — Nugent, Earl of Court. 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

Blustering March had come round, and gossip had 
worn to a thread the story of Lady Court's romantic oirth. 
It had seized on the history of Sir Douglas Gerant's long- 


.206 


MARGERY DAW. 


lost daughter with avidity, for it was not often that society’s 
jaded appetite was regaled with so delightful a morsel. 
Many things had happened since dull November, but fore- 
most among them were two events — Lord and Lady Court 
were abroad, to the' great annoyance of society, as it was 
thus debarred from beholding her ladyship in person, and 
the engagement between Stuart Crosbie, heir to Crosbie 
Castle, and Miss Vane Charteris, his cousin, came to an 
abrupt and strange termination just as the congratulations 
• were pouring in. Many reasons were given in strict con- 
fidence for this unsatisfactory affair. It was averred that 
Miss Charteris had quarreled with her aunt, Mrs. Crosbie, 
and that Stuart, like a dutiful son, had espoused his 
mother’s cause: that cold, beautiful Vane refused to be- 
come her cousin’s wife when she discovered that Beecliam 
Park had passed away from him; and that Miss Charteris 
had grown tired of her affianced husband. These and 
numerous other explanations were whispered; but no one 
knew the truth — none but three people — the cousins them- 
selves and the mistress of Crosbie Castle. 

Stuart had not reproached his mother; but his mental 
suffering caused her much uneasiness and genuine shame. 
She never knew what took place between Vane Charteris 
and her son, for Stuart was silent, and her niece left town 
with her mother for Cannes immediately after the rupture. . 
She felt that Vane must be suffering disappointment, but 
she could never guess the humiliation, the sullen revenge 
and anger that were gnawing at her niece’s heart. Go 
where she would, at every turn Yane had Stuart’s con- 
temptuous face before her, heard liis bitter words, saw her- 
self again as he had shown her, in her true light, dishonora- 
ble and despicable. That the marriage should have been 
broken off was acute disappointment; but the odium she 
had brought on herself in his eyes was even harder to bear. 
The malicious spite she had felt toward Margery deepened 
now into actual hatred; it galled her to desperation to 
know that the village girl should have become so great a 
person, her equal in birth, her superior by marriage. Poor 
Lady Charteris was overwhelmed with sorrow at the abrupt 
termination of her daughter’s engagement, and fretted her- 
self to a shadow because of Vane’s irritability and peevish- 
ness. She lavished all her heart’s tenderness on her 
daughter, hoping and trusting to see her regain her spirits; 


MARGERY DAW. 


207 


but it was weary work. Vane, crushed by her own deceit 
and wrong-doing, was rapidly changing into an envious, 
soured, miserable woman. 

Mrs. Crosbie was ignorant of the whole of Yana’s cruel 
falsehoods and insults; and, knowing this, Stuart accepted 
as truly genuine her proud words of sorrow and vexation 
for her share in the matter. It had been a startling dis- 
closure to Mrs. Crosbie when she found that Margery Daw 
had become the Countess of Court; but, when surprise had 
died away, she felt unconsciously gratified that her new 
relative should hold so high a social position, and was even 
disposed to be -friendly toward her, although she had de- 
prived Stuart of Beech am Park. She wrote a courteous 
note to the young wife when her excitement had cooled, 
welcoming her as her kinswoman, and offering her warm 
congratulations. 

Margery was in Borne when this letter reached her. She 
read it through slowly, then, with a faint smile, folded it 
and put it away. It was not in keeping with her generous 
nature to bear malice, so she replied to Mrs. Crosbie’ s epis- 
tle with a few words of acknowledgment written in a kindly 
spirit. Margery received another letter at about the same 
time which brought a flush of sincere pleasure to her face. 
It was written by Miss Lawson in the name of the villagers 
of Hurstley, offering Lady Court warm expressions of affec- 
tion, respect, and esteem from all her old friends, and at 
the head of the list of names were the signatures of Farmer 
Bright and his wife; Miss Lawson's own letter explained 
everything. Just after the news of Margery’s parentage 
was made public to the village, a letter came from Bobert 
Bright in Australia, from which his mother gathered how 
unjustly she had ^wronged Margery in her hasty suspicions; 
and, eager to make atonement, the good woman had head- 
ed the village letter with her name. Bobert spoke of re- 
turning almost immediately, so Margery’s heart was lighter 
on that score. Miss Lawson’s words of joy at her dear 
child’s prosperity and happiness brought tears to Margery’s 
eyes; but they were tears of gratitude and affection, not of 
}3ain. 

She was strangely peaceful and content now; the memory 
of Stuart’s supposed deception and insults, which had 
rankled so long in her breast, was gone; she remembered 
only that his love for her had never faltered. Her girlhood 


208 


MARGERY DAW. 


was buried in her snort love-dream; she was a woman now, 
brave and determined to fight the battle of life gallantly 
to the end. She looked to her husband as a guide and a 
comforter and he tended her with more than a husband's 
care. A great true affection had sprung up in her heart 
for him; he was so tender, so good, so manly! In her 
gratitude for all his thought and care she vowed always to 
keep a smile for him, while the secret of her love should be 
locked from his sight forever. Sometimes she "would sink 
_into a reverie, then wake, to find his eyes fixed on her with 
such intensity, such an agony of love and pain in them, 
that it would startle her; but as she looked the expression 
would fade and the smile would come, the tender grave 
smile that she knew so well. When Mrs. Crosbie's second 
letter came, begging the earl and countess to pay her a 
visit, it was he who replied; and, as if divining her secret 
thoughts, he wrote that his wife regretted she was unable 
to visit Crosbie Castle at present. 

They had left the Manor almost immediately after Stu- 
art's departure. Lord Court suggested a short tour on the 
Continent, and Margery eagerly agreed; so they crossed the 
Channel without delay. But, as the winter slipped away, 
it occurred to Margery that she should visit her inheritance, 
Beecham Park. So, bidding farewell to the clear blue 
skies and the world of delights that had been opened to- 
iler, they returned to England. 

Beecham Park was a huge gloomy mansion, so deserted 
and solitary-looking that, as they drove up the magnificent 
avenue of chestnuts, Margery involuntarily shuddered. Sir 
Eustace Gerant had neglected the estate; and, splendid 
though the building was within, it did not bring the pleas- 
ure to its owner that Court Manor had. 

“ Are you disappointed, my darling?" asked the earl one 
morning, after watching her carefully. 

“ It is very grand; the grounds and woods are beautiful; 
but it is not home," she answered, with a sigh. 

However, there was much to be done — for they found 
that the steward, who had had sole control of the estate, 
had neglected his duties most disgracefully — so, placing all 
authority in the hands of her husband, Margery turned her 
attention to the village near, burying all regrets and vain 
liopes that assailed her in untiring work on behalf of her 
tenants. 


MARGERY DAW. 


209 


It was a weary trial at times, for, though she had cour- 
age, her strength would occasionally fail, and her heart 
would yearn for the love she had lost; but none knew of 
this struggle but herself — she had learned to control her 
emotions and smile when the burden was heaviest. 

“ ’Tis strange with how much power and pride 
The softness is of love allied, 

How much of power to force the breast 
To be in outward show at rest, 

How much of pride that never eye 
May look upon its agony. 

Ah, little will the lip reveal 
Of all the burning heart can feel!” 

Of Stuart she heard nothing; but she had faith in his 
courage and manliness, and knew that, once the cloud 
which overshadowed him had passed, he would fulfill Iris 
word and face the world. He was once more her ideal, her 
hero, and she felt he would not fail in this duty to himself. 

Engrossed in her thoughts and daily tasks, she did not 
notice the change that seemed to be coming over the earl. 
His tenderness never failed, his courtesy and love were 
never lacking, and she had grown so used to all his thought- 
ful care that it seemed but the adjunct of eveiy-day life. 
But she was suddenly awakened from this existence. 

The Squire of Crosbie Castle had been one of the first 
among her new relatives warmly to welcome Margery. He 
had loved her father, and for his old affection's sake had 
opened his heart to the young girl; when therefore he 
learned that the Earl and Countess of Court had returned 
to England and were staying at Beecliam Park, he wrote 
immediately, expressing a great wish to visit them. To 
this Margery and her husband replied with genuine pleas- 
ure, begging the squire to come as soon as possible. 

Margery found a warm love spring up in her breast for 
Stuart's father, and the earl and the squire soon became 
good friends. It was the squire who called Margery's at- 
tention to Lord Court's quiet manner and worn appear- 
ance, as they were talking together one morning. Mar- 
gery listened with a sense of regret and remorse at her 
blindness, and, making some excuse, she left the squire in 
the grounds where they had been sauntering and hurried 
back to the house. It was a glorious spring day; the sun- 
shine illuminated the old mansion, darting in golden shafts 


2 10 


MARGERY DAW. 


through the long narrow windows. Margery crossed the 
hall, above which was seen a massive dome and round 
which ran the gallery leading to the upper apartments and 
bedrooms. Several servants were hurrying to and fro; 
and, asking for the earl, she learned that he was in the 
study, busy with the new steward. 

Without hesitation she made her way to the room and 
opened the door. The earl was alone, leaning his head 
upon his hand, reading some papers which lay on the 
table. 

4 4 This lease is wrong, Robins, ” he said, not looking up 
as the door opened. 

Margery moved forward softly, and then knelt at his 
feet. 

4 4 Nugent!” she said, with a little catch in her breath as 
she noted his pale worn face for the first time. 

The earl turned with a smile so sweet and tender that it 
made Margery's lips tremble. 

44 My darling!” he exclaimed, gently. 44 You here?” 

44 Nugent, you are ill — worried! Ah, I have been blind 
not to see it before! Oh, forgive me, forgive me!” 

Lord Court raised her head tenderly. 

44 Why, Margery,” he said, lightly, 44 what is the mat- 
ter? Who has been frightening you?” 

44 1 am nervous about you; you look so worn and ill. 
Nugent, you must put away those deeds and writings. 
They distress me . 9 9 

44 You shall not be distressed then, my darling; see — I 
have put them away at once. But you are mistaken, Mar- 
gery; I am not ill, only a little tired.” 

44 Tired?” she repeated, putting her hands on his. 

4 ‘ Yes, yes, of course! How forgetful lam! I leave you 
all this tiresome business to do. I am very selfish.” 

44 You are my dear, sweet Margery!” he said, lightly. 

44 But what has caused you this sudden fear, my darling?” 

44 You have been looking ill for so long! The squire has 
just spoken to me, and it has frightened me: and, Nugent, 

I want to ask you something. Will you promise to do it?” 

4 ‘ What can I refuse you, Margery?” 

44 Then let us leave here and go back to the manor — the 
squire is longing to see our dear old home'. You will come, 
-dear?” 

- {i Home!” repeated the earl, dreamily, as if the word 


MARGERY DAW. 


211 


brought content. Then, with a sudden contraction of his 
brows, as if from pain, he added, “ But it will be lonely 
for you, my dear one; you will not care for it.” 

“ I wish it with all my heart,” said Margery, quietly, 
glad to see that this proposal brought a gleam of pleasure 
to his eyes. 

“ Then,” returned her husband, looking with a strange, 
sad steadfastness into her glorious eyes — “ then we will go 
home, Margery.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

Back at Court Manor, Margery banished for awhile the 
sad memory of her lost love. This spot was hallowed by 
the presence of Enid's spirit, and for that reason, apart 
from all others, was dear to her. The squire reveled in 
the picturesque surroundings of the estate. 

“ They may call Beecham magnificent,” he said, dream- 
ily as he stood in the old-fashioned gardens and gazed round 
on the fragrant flowers, “ but this is home.” 

c< Cousin Sholto, you indorse my opinion. I love the 
manor!” 

Margery, clad in a long robe of creamy white, with just 
a knot of black ribbons at her neck and in her broad- 
brimmed hat, glanced at her husband as she spoke, and 
smiled at him. 

The squire responded to his hostess by a poetical quota- 
tion: 

“ ‘ And primroses, pale gems of spring, 

Lay on the green turf glistening 
Close by the violet, whose breath 
Is so sweet, in a dewy wreath. 

And, oh, that myrtle — how green it grew. 

With flowers as white as the pearls of dew 
That shone beside! And the glorious rose 
Lay like a beauty in warm repose, 

Blushing in slumber.’ ” 

Margery listened dreamily. Her thoughts had flown to 
the spring-time of her life, recalled by the breath of the 
flowers, the sweetness of the air. 

The earl had wandered across the lawn; and, though he 
looked less grave and worn, the expression of his eyes as he 
turned from Margery was unspeakably sad. 


MARGERY DAW. 


212 

Margery’s reverie was disturbed by the squire, and she 
was soon deep in an interesting scientific discussion with 
him. Presently her husband returned, followed by one of 
the gardeners. 

“ I am going to the west part of the grounds, my dar- 
ling,” he said. “ Marshall tells me the men are going to 
cut down that dead tree this morning. It was struck by 
lightning in the autumn.” 

“I will come with you. Court,” broke in the squire. 
“ In my young days 1 was rather good at that sort of 
thing.” 

“ Come, by all means. Marshall, see that there are two 
extra axes ready. ” 

“ You are not going to help them, are you, Nugent?” 
Margery asked, quickly and nervously. 

“Yes, my darling. But don’t be afraid; I am, as 
school-boys would say, a 4 big gun ’ at wood-cutting — am I 
not, Marshall?” 

“Indeed you are, my lord,” the gardener replied, sol- 
emnly. 

“ May I come and watch you?” 

The earl hesitated. 

“ I should be afraid, darling, as the splinters fly about 
so rapidly; but perhaps I can place you in a safe corner. 
Run and put on some stronger shoes; the ground is damp 
down at that corner. You have good ropes, Marshall?” 

“ Y r es, my lord. ” 

“ I will follow you directly,” said Margery; then, as they 
turned, urged by an uncontrollable impulse, she called, 
“ Nugent!” 

The earl came back at once. 

“ You are sure there is no danger?’’ 

“ Quite sure — as certain as any man can be.” 

Margery smiled, raised her lips to his, and he kissed her. 
A faint flush rose to his brow at the simple action; and 
then, with a swift, tender look, he turned and walked rap- 
idly away. 

Margery went quickly to the house and changed her 
shoes for a stronger pair; then, seeing the look of eager- 
ness on Pauline’s face she good-naturedly told the maid to 
put on a hat, and they started together. 

The sound of voices and heavy blows led them to the 
exact spot, and Pauline in her excitement could not repress 


MARGERY DAW. 


213 


little shrieks and exclamations of astonishment. As they 
turned the corner the earl came toward them ; he had re- 
moved his coat, and, with his strong right hand grasping 
the ax, his face flushed from the unwonted exercise, he 
looked almost handsome. 

“ Come here, my darling/ * he said, leading Margery to 
a safe nook. “ Crosbie, stand by my wife. We shall soon 
have it down, poor old tree! How well I remember it in 
my school-boy days! You are frightened, Margery!” 

“ No,” she answered with a smile, though her heart 
thrilled with strange apprehension. 

The squire came to her, looking rather despondent. 

“ I find that years have greatly lessened my strength/* 
he remarked, with a little sigh , 4 4 and I must look on now.** 

Margery did not answer; she was watching her husband. 
She heard his clear ringing voice directing the men, saw 
his straight even strikes, and the excitement overcame her 
dread. It was a novel scene, and one that pleased her, 
though the sight of the gray dead trunk, the remains of a 
noble flourishing tree, saddened her somewhat. Pauline 
cowered and shrieked as she heard the great rough mass 
creak; but Margery never moved; the bustle and vigor of 
the men roused her spirit — she almost longed to assist. 
The earl, glancing now and then at the group of watchers, 
caught the gleam of her eyes, and, smiling, he waved his 
hand toward the girlish figure that looked so fair and grace- 
ful in its white robes against the background of young trees 
and bushes. 

“ It was not such a tough job as it looked,** observed the 
squire, as he watched the men throw stout ropes round the 
great trunk and knot them firmly, preparatory to dragging 
the tree to earth. 

Margery nodded her head absently; she was lost in the 
excitement of the moment. She saw the earl wave them 
further back toward the bushes, felt Pauline drew her on 
one side, though her eyes never left her husband *s form, 
and then came a moment of silence. Suddenly a mighty 
crash sounded in her ears, while a cloud of dust obscured 
her vision. 

“ Is it all over?** she asked vaguely, turning to the 
squire; but her cousin had left her side and was hurrying 
to the group of men. 


214 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ Miladi will return?'' queried Pauline, with a little 
shudder. “ Ah, what terrible noise!" 

“ I will wait for Lord Court," answered Margery; then, 
after a little pause — “ But, Pauline, what is the matter? 
Some one is hurt!" 

“ They crowd together — that is all, miladi. Shall I go 
and see?" 

“No; I will." 

Drawing her skirts together, Margery left her retreat and 
approached the group. As the men looked round and per- 
ceived her, she thought they seemed alarmed and pained. 
She quickened her steps, and then the squire came toward 
her. 

“ You must let me take you to the house, my dear," lie 
said hurriedly; “ your husband wishes it." 

“What is the matter? Some one is hurt! Cousin 
Shol to, don't stop me! I know now — it is Nugent!" 

She pushed the squire's trembling hand on one side, and 
with swift steps approached the group. The men fell back 
in silence, and in an instant she was on her knees beside a 
silent prostrate form, with face of deathly hue. 

“ Nugent!" she cried, bending over him in agony. 
Then, as he still lay perfectly still, she looked round wild- 
ly. “ What is it? Fetch a doctor quickly — your master 
is hurt!" 

The man Marshall stepped forward. 

“ We've sent for the doctor, my lady. It was done in 
an instant; the tree swerved and brought his lordship down 
with it. We've just dragged it oft' his body. He were 
sensible at first, and asked us to keep you away; but he's 
fainted now. " 

Margery scarcely heard the explanation; with a heart 
full of dread she was bending over the pale face, breathing 
words of agony and tenderness that fell on silent ears. The 
squire came to her and tried to draw her away; but she 
would not stir. They brought brandy from the house, and 
a mattress with pillows on which to carry the injured man; 
but all were afraid to touch him. Then, when her misery, 
her despair, was greatest, the heavy lids were raised, and 
she met the gaze of the deep dark eyes. The white lips 
trembled and moved; she bent her head to catch the whis- 
per. 

“ It — is — nothing — my darling. Take me to — " 


MARGERY DAW. 


215 


The labored speech died away in another faint; and, as 
she saw his weakness and suffering, Margery rose to her 
feet with courage born of despair. 

“ Carry your master to the house,” she said steadily, 
never taking her eyes from his face. 

The men stooped, and with tender, gentle hands lifted 
the inanimate form on to the mattress, then, with slow, 
even steps, they carried him through the sunlit gardens to 
the house. It was not far; yet by the time they reached 
the entrance the doctor of the village was seen riding furi- 
ously up the avenue. He leaped from his horse, and was 
at the wounded man's side in an instant. Margery turned 
her eyes from the pale face of her husband and fixed them 
upon the doctor. As he scanned the earl's drawn counte- 
nance, her heart seemed to stand still. In that moment 
she was conscious of nothing but an agony of dread, re- 
morse, and pain, so terrible that it almost overpowered 
her. 

“ Carry him into a room on the ground-floor," said the 
doctor decisively; “ we must not risk the stairs.'' 

They carried him through the hall into the room where 
long before he had sat by Enid's couch. Margery walked 
with them, though what power enabled her to move she 
knew not, for all life seemed dead within her. 

The men withdrew quietly to the door-way, while she 
crouched down by the still form and buried her face in her 
hands. The squire and the doctor exchanged glances. 

<e Get her away!" murmured the latter. But Margery 
heard him. 

“ No , no!" she protested, rising to her feet. “ Let me 
stay — I will be brave, Cousin Sholto. You will let me stay 
— you must let me stay; I can not go!" 

“ Doctor Godfrey will let you remain if you have the 
strength,'' the squire said, soothingly; then he took her 
two cold hands in his and drew her to the wide window, 
while the doctor motioned the men away and closed the 
door. 

Margery's eyes never left the pallid face of her husband. 
In breathless, sickening anxiety she watched Dr. Godfrey 
pass his hand over the injured man's chest and fractured 
arm, unconscious that the broken respirations that came 
from her lips told of the agony she was enduring. The 


216 


MARGERY DAW. 


doctor looked round as the sound fell on his ears, and in 
an instant he knew how to act. 

“ Lady Court, I want you to help me/ ’ he said, gravely, 
advancing to her. “ Go at once, and fetch me. brandy, 
some warm water, a sponge, and some old linen — as quick- 
ly as possible, please.” 

In a moment she had turned and left the room. The 
squire glanced at the doctor. 

“ It was to get her away,” explained the medical man. 
“ The case is hopeless; I can do nothing. The ribs are 
terribly crushed, the lungs and heart vitally injured, and 
there is a severe fracture of the left shoulder and arm. It 
is only a question of hours now — perhaps minutes; but it 
will do her good to give her occupation. That tension of 
her nerves was killing her, poor young creature!” 

“ I can do no good?” queried the squire, passing a 
trembling hand across his brow. 

“ No,” answered Dr. Godfrey. “ Let me advise you to 
go to your room; when the change comes you shall know.” 

The squire went away, feeling now more than ever that 
he was indeed a weak old man. The doctor was alone and 
bending over the patient when Margery came back, carry- 
ing all that he had asked for. She stood as silent as a 
statue while he slowly poured a few drops of brandy be- 
tween the closed lips; then, as a sign of life came once more 
into the deatli-like face, she gave a sob of thankfulness and 
sunk upon her knees by the couch. 

The earl’s eyelids were raised with difficulty, and his 
dark eyes wandered round slowly till they rested on his 
wife’s face, then the faintest of smiles broke over his coun- 
tenance, dying away the next instant in a contraction of 
pain. 

“ Nugent — Nugent — oh, speak to me!” whispered Mar- 
gery, wildly, putting her trembling lips to his passive hand, 
all the goodness, the generosity, the tenderness that this 
man had lavished upon her coming back to her memory 
and maddening her. 

Dr. Godfrey moistened the earl’s lips again; the breath 
came from the injured chest in short, broken respirations; 
and then, as dew to a parched flower, as golden light in 
direst darkness, fell the whisper of her husband’s voice on 
Margery’s ears. He looked at the doctor, then said, with 
difficulty: 


MARGERY DAW. 


217 


44 Leave us — alone. ” 

Dr. Godfrey rose, and turned to Margery. 

“ Do not agitate him,” he said, gently. 44 He has 
something to tell you, I see. Moisten his lips with brandy 
if he grows faint. I will go out on to the terrace; I shall 
be close at hand if you want me. ” 

The earTs eyes followed him; then they came back to 
Margery. He tried to raise his hand to her head, but the 
effort was too much; it fell nerveless to his side. 

4 4 My darling — my wife! You are sorry, then?” he 
gasped. 

4 4 Sorry!” whispered Margery, her voice thick with ag- 
ony. 44 Oh, that I could give my life for yours, Nugent — 
that I could spare you all!” She could say no more. 

The earl moved his head a little, his eyes closed; she put 
the brandy to his lips. 

44 It has come at last!” he murmured. 44 Margery, lis- 
ten, my darling! I know your secret, your love- story. ” 
He wrestled for a moment with his growing faintness then 
went on, brokenly: 44 1 was in my room that day when you 
parted from Stuart, and I heard all, my brave darling — 
learned how much you were suffering. My death will set 
you free. You will be happy in the future, Margery, my 
sweet one!” 

44 Do not — oh, do not speak like that, Nugent!” she 
whispered, mad with a fever of pain, regret, remorse. 
44 You torture me!” 

44 Let me tell you how happy you have made me, wife. 
Death is near — you must — ” His voice sunk; then, with 
a last effort, he went on: 44 Promise to make Stuart happy; 
he loves you, Margery. Give me your promise — ” 

44 1 can not,” she broke in, in tearless agony. 44 Nu- 
gent, you break my heart— you— ” Then seeing the in- 
tense eagerness of his dark eyes, she paused. 

44 Promise!” his lips formed rather than spoke. 

She hesitated only for a moment. 

44 1 promise,” she murmured, faintly. 

A smile lighted up his face. 

44 Now all is ended!” The words came very faintly. 
44 1 am content. Kiss me, my — ” 

Margery put her lips to his — their coldness filled her 
with dread. • A sigh came from the earPs injured breast, 
his eyes closed. 


218 


MARGERY DAW. 


44 Nugent, I promise!” she murmured, wildly. ‘ 4 But 
you will not go — you will not leave me! 1 want you; you 
must stay! Nugent, open your eyes — speak to me — hus- 
band!” 

She bent over him again, and as she did so a gentle hand 
was placed on her shoulder, and she was raised from her 
knees. She saw the still pallid face, calm and passive in 
the sunlight; then a great blackness came over her, and 
she knew no more. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

44 Margery, the sea is beautiful to-day. Come out,, 
child; it will do you good.” 

Miss Lawson spoke in her old abrupt, almost stern way; 
but she experienced deep, heartfelt pain as she looked at 
the slight form in its heavy mourning-robe, and at the girl- 
ish, beautiful face beneath the widow’s cap. 

Margery raised her eyes from her writing. 

44 1 do not care for it, dear,” she answered, gently; 
44 and I must finish these letters for the post. Remember/ 
Wavemouth is not London; we do not go by steam down 
here. ” 

44 Your letters can wait,” said Miss Lawson. 44 They are 
not of such consequence as your health.” 

44 My tenants at Beecham do not say that,” returned 
Lady Court, with a faint smile; 44 but, if you wish it very — ” 

44 I do wish it very much; indeed, I am rather dull, 
Margery. ” 

The well- assumed plaintiveness of the elder woman’s 
last words was most successful. 

“Dull!” repeated Margery, putting down her pen at 
once. 4 4 Oh, forgive me! How selfish I am, dear friend!’ 

44 There, don’t waste time in self-reproach! Go and put 
on your hat — not your heavy bonnet. The fresh air will 
do you more good than sentimentalizing. ’ ’ 

Miss Lawson brushed away a tear as the slender figure 
left the room. A year had gone — a sharp and trying spring, 
a summer of golden splendor, an autumn of cheerless mis- 
ery, a winter of frost and chill, and spring was come 
again; and during all that time Margery had lived weighed 
down by a burden of anguish and sorrow. Miss Lawson 
had gone to her at the beginning of her grief, and, discard- 


MARGERY DAW. 


210 


ing all other ties, had given herself up to her old pupil, 
who clung to her so despairingly; and it was the elder 
woman’s one aim to drive the gloom and despondency 
from the girlish brow, and bring joy and happiness back 
to the youthful heart. 

She knew Margery’s secret now. Stuart and she were 
leagued together; but all through the year, though she had 
tried again and again, she could not bring the lovers and 
cousins together. Margery shrunk from meeting Stuart 
— shrunk with a heart full of remorse, pain, and morbid 
gloom. Was it right that she should be glad, have happi- 
ness, when one who had loved her so truly and tenderly 
lay in the grave forgotten? Once, only once, had she 
spoken on this subject to Miss Lawson; and, like a wise 
woman, the governess said nothing, but decided to wait. 

4 4 It is but natural, after all. Margery’s sensitive, gen- 
erous spirit has received so terrible a shock, that it has shat- 
tered all joy in life at one blow.” 

So spoke Miss Lawson as she reasoned with Stuart, who 
hungered for a kind word, a sign, from his early love. He 
honored her for her fealty to the dead, but he was human, 
and his heart cried out for peace after so much misery. He 
had been more than touched by the noble, generous thought- 
fulness of the dying man; for, after all was over and the 
will read, a letter was sent him, and, alone in his chamber, 
Stuart learned the wish and desire of Nugent, Earl of 
Court. 

The writer told how, on returning earlier than he had 
anticipated, he had entered the house through the window 
of his 44 den,” from the grounds. This was barred after 
him by his servant; and thus he became an unintentional 
eavesdropper to the sad meeting between his wife and her 
cousin ; and he ended by entreating Stuart to let no obsta- 
cle stand in his path, but to consummate Margery’s and 
his own happiness by a speedy marriage. 

With the letter of the dead man close to his heart, Stu- 
art buried all compunction and regret, and waited and 
longed for Margery to speak; but she was silent. She was 
racked by conflicting emotions. Day and night the image 
of her dead husband hardly left her mind; for evidence of 
his great love still surrounded her, Court Manor being her 
own house, bequeathed to her when the rest of the estate 
passed to the next heir. She could not banish the regret 


220 


MARGERY DAW. 


and remorse that had seized her. Again and again she 
longed for the past to return, so that she might act differ- 
ently. And yet her love for Stuart had not grown less; he 
was still her hero, her king. It was doubt and nervous, 
sensitive pain that kept her from him ; and day by day the 
pain grew greater, till she knew not what to do. 

Had she been allowed, Margery would have remained at 
Court Manor, in spite of the sad memories that clung to it; 
hut Miss Lawson .took care not to sanction such an ar- 
rangement. She dictated to the young Countess of Court 
as she had dictated in the old days to Margery Daw ; and 
unconsciously the girlish widow obeyed, as she had always 
done, and allowed her friend to rule. They had spent the 
first six months following the earl's death at Beecham 
Park, then Miss Lawson took Margery abroad before pay- 
ing a brief visit to the manor. How she accompanied 
Lady Court to Wavemouth, at Margery's own request. 
Personally, she thought the little village too quiet for the 
girl, but Margery seemed to like its peaceful monotony, so 
she raised no objection. As time went on, however, and 
she found the sad apathy increase, instead of decrease, the 
governess began to consider how she ought to act. 

Stuart had not been mentioned between them for weeks, 
though Miss Lawson had to send a daily report to the 
eager, anxious man. Something must be done, she de- 
clared mentally, as she turned to meet Margery entering 
- the room in her heavy black robe and large black hat, to 
banish the morbid remorse and sadness that were preying 
upon the life of the young girl. 

“ I am glad to see you are sensible," she observed, nod- 
ding at sight of the hat. “ Now come along; it is a beau- 
tiful afternoon." 

Margery smiled faintly at the sharp words yet gentle 
voice, and together they left the house. 

They walked on in silence to the very edge of the sea, 
and stood watching the sunlit crested waves come rolling 
in. Margery was deep in thought, and Miss Lawson 
watched her anxiously. Her heart prompted her to speak 
out, to urge the girl to cast off her burden of gloom and 
turn once more to joy and happiness, but the sad young 
face looking across the sea stopped her. 

The afternoon sun descended lower and lower, and still 
Margery stood gazing at the sea. 


MARGERY DAW. 


221 


“ The great sea, faultless as a flow’r, 

Throbs trembling under beam and breeze 
And laughs with love of th’ am’rous hour.” 

< At last, as a gray cloud obscured the golden light for a 
time, she turned to Miss Lawson. 

“Let us go back,” she said, hurriedly, with a little 
shudder. “ I am tired now . 99 

Miss Lawson walked with her in silence. 

“ I am an old woman,” she mused to herself, “ this is 
beyond me. We have waited long and wearily, and yet she 
gets no better. I shall give in, and leave the rest to 
Stuart . 99 

* H< * * * % 

A message sped swiftly from the fishing-village to the 
great city. It was short, yet it brought a thrill of intense 
foy to Stuart Crosbie's aching heart. There was no hope 
breathed in the words, but hope lived within his breast, as 
it had lived through all his weary waiting. He longed im- 
patiently for the night to be gone — for the morning to 
come, and when the sun rose over the still sleeping city, he 
was speeding away from it to the sea. 

“ Where shall we land you, sweet? 

On fields of strange men’s feet, 

Or fields near home, 

Or where the fire-flow’ rs blow, 

Or where the flow’rs of snow, 

Or flow’rs of foam? 

We are in love’s hand to-day.” 

So sung his heart in glad anticipation of its joy. Hap- 
piness had been so long absent, it must come now. Misery, 
despair, sorrow, were all forgotten — he lived again! 

*• * * * * * 

“ You will be back to-night?” asked Margery, as she 
put a water-proof round Miss Lawson's form. “You 
promise me?" 

“ I promise,” said Miss Lawson, briskly. “ Ugh, what 
a day! Margery, take my advice; don't go out.'' 

“ It will not hurt me; I like the wind and the spray.” 

“ Then wrap up well. Pauline " — turning to the maid 
— “ if her ladyship does go out, see that she puts on some- 
thing sensible.” 


222 


MARGERY DAW. 


“ How little you trust me!” said Margery, with a faint 
smile. “ But are you sensibly clad, may I ask?” 

“ Two shawls, a water-proof, goloshes, and an umbrel- 
la,” observed Miss Lawson, quietly. Inwardly she felt a 
thrill of satisfaction; Margery seemed brighter, more nat- 
ural, more her old self to-day. 

44 Then good-bye, dear. ” Margery put her lips to the 
elder woman's. “ Give my love to Mrs Fothergill and the 
doctor.” 

Miss Lawson nodded and walked away. 

“ I am an old fool,” she declared, savagely, to herself, 
as she felt a tear roll down her cheek, ‘ ‘ and I only hope I 
shall keep out of the way for some good!” 

Left alone, Margery stood for awhile at the window, 
gazing at the rough, angry sea; then she asked Pauline for 
her cloak and hat. 

“ Will miladi that I go with her?” asked the maid, in 
her broken English. 

Margery shook her head. 

“ I shall not go far; and this wind does you no good, 
Pauline.” 

“ Miladi is so kind. If she will permit, I think that hat 
will not be wise. See this capuchon — so warm! It will be 
best. ” 

Margery agreed, and tied the comfortable hood round 
her delicate, lovely face, looking sweetly fair with her halo 
of red-gold curls and her deep, lustrous blue eyes. She 
turned toward the shore; the roaring and dashing of the 
sea exhilarated her, the strong, soft wind seemed to blow 
away the clouds of doubt and pain that hung over her. 
Her sorrow was lost in the pleasurable excitement that 
thrilled her as she stood, wind-blown and rain-drenched, 
and watched the great waves come rolling in, with their 
thunderous voices and mountains of spray. The tempest 
seemed to suit her humor; she reveled in the freedom and 
wildness of the elements as in the birth of a new life — a 
life with hope springing glorious within. 

She moved on as quickly as the wind would allow, stop- 
ping every now and then to gather her cloak closer around 
her. The gale had blown her curls in rough fashion all 
over her hood; there was a light in her eyes, a glow of 
color on her fair cheeks; for the moment she looked the 
Margery of old, not the sad girl-widow of present days. 


MARGERY DAW. 


223 


Few of the fisher-folk were about; but in the distance 

she could see some children running to and fro on the 

shore, and the wind now and then wafted their voices to 

her ears. Tired at last, her breath almost spent, she 

turned inland in a cross direction, determining to rest at 
one of the cottages before going home. The wind blew her 
along at times, almost taking her off her feet; and she had 
to drop upon the wet beach more than once to gather 
strength. At last she sighted the cottages, and struggled 
to the first one. The women knew her well; she was a 
great favorite, and they were never tired of dwelling on 
her youth, beauty, sad history, and goodness and gener- 
osity. 

She knocked at the rough door, and it was opened im- 
mediately. 

“ May I come in and rest, Mrs. David?” she asked, lean- 
ing back against the door-post, almost breathless. 

4 4 Lor* bless me, my lady, in course! Come in at once!” 
exclaimed the buxom fisherwoman. “It is a sight too 
-wild for you to be out. It is rough here, too, my lady. 
The chair is hard; but — ” 

4 4 It is most acceptable,” sighed Margery, sinking, with 
a sigh of fatigue, into the great wooden chair. 44 1 have 
been walking along the shore. How rough the sea is to- 
day! And how have you been, Mrs. David? You look 
sad — are you in trouble? Oh ” — catching sight of a small 
form covered with blankets lying in a warm corner by the 
fire — 44 your child is ill?” 

Mrs. David put her apron to her eyes. 

44 He is better now, my lady,” she replied, with a sob 
in her voice; 44 but he was all but gone this morning. Oh, 
dear me, it fair broke my heart to see him — him, my only 
one, my lady!” 

44 What happened?” asked Margery quickly, her heart 
full of sympathy. She knew the child well — a beautiful 
rosy-cheeked boy, the very light and joy of his parents' 
life. 44 Is he very ill?” 

44 He went out the morning, your ladyship. My mind mis- 
give me as I saw him go; but he loves the sea. My man is 
away over to the town to-day; and Jim he begged to go out 
and watch the waves; and he went too near, my lady, and 
got drawed in by the tide, and would have been washed 
away if a strange gentleman — Heaven bless him! — hadn't 


224 : 


MARGERY DAW 


tore off his coat and plunged in. I thought my Jim was 
dead when I see him carried in white and all dripping; but 
the gentleman he rubbed him, and rolled him in blankets. 
And now lie's sleeping like a lamb, you see, my lady. 
But, oh, I nearly died!" 

“ It was dreadful!" said Margery gently, rising and put- 
ting her soft white hand on the rough tanned arm of the 
mother. “ But don't cry, Mrs. David. Jim is all right 
now, poor little fellow. You are nervous and upset. Can 
you send up to my house this evening? I will have some 
nice things put together for him that will soon make him 
well." 

“ Heaven bless you for your goodness, my lady!" re- 
turned Mrs. David. “ I ain't one to give way to tears 
often; but you can understand — " 

“ Yes, I understand," whispered Margery, standing and 
looking down at’ the sleeping child, while Mrs. David went 
on with her account of the accident. 

“ It were just the merest chance the gentleman were on 
the spot," she said. “ He'd come from the town, and was 
walking to Wavemouth, along the shore, when he saw lit- 
tle Jim washed off his feet, and he was in the water in an 
instant. " 

“ He was brave!" Margery interjected quietly. 

“ Ay, that he was; and it'll never be forgotten by us, 
though we live to hundreds! But won't you sit down, my 
the gentleman here every minute to in- 



“ I am rested now, and I think I will make a start." 

Margery walked to the little window and looked out. The 
wind was raging just as fiercely as ever, and the rain was 
beating furiously against the panes. 

“ Let me give you some tea, my lady," urged Mrs. Da- 
vid. “I'll have it ready in an instant." 

Margery shook her head. 

“ No, thank you, Mrs. David; I must be gone. I -will — " 

A sharp knock came at the door, and for some strange 
reason she moved round so that nothing could be seen but 
her back, draped in the hood and cloak, while Mrs. David 
bustled to the door. 

“ It is you, sir! Come in and welcome! He's sleeping 
sound now, sir. Ah, Heaven give you happiness, as you 
have given it to me to-day!" 


MARGERY DAW. 


225 


A curious sensation stole over Margery’s heart — a sensa- 
tion that brought a vague touch of joy. The next moment 
the joy increased, for a voice spoke, the tones of which re- 
called all the golden dream of her early love. 

It was Stuart, her lover! Her hands, clasped together, 
were pressed against her throbbing heart, her lips mur- 
mured his name silently; but still she stood motionless; 
and Stuart’s eye went from the unknown woman in the 
hood and cloak to the child. I 

“ He’s all right now, Mrs. David; there is no fever. ' 
You will have him as jolly as ever in a day or two.” ; 

“ Oh, thank you, sir! And you yourself, sir — you ain’t 
got no harm?” 

‘ 4 Not a bit,” laughed Stuart cheerily. “ Sea-water does 
not hurt me; I am used to it. I have been in a gale or two 
at sea, you know. It is rough weather, though, to-day, 
Mrs. David.” 

“ That it is, sir. Here’s her ladyship, sir, quite done up 
by the wind. She’s honored me with resting awhile. ” 

Stuart stared. How blind he had been ! How could he 
have overlooked that slender figure? His heart burned 
within his breast, he could hardly restrain his joy. And 
Margery? In a moment her doubts, her sad misgivings 
vanished; she knew that her love lived again in all its 
strength and sweetness. It had been clouded, not over- 
come. She moved from the window and put out her hand. 

“ I know this gentleman, Mrs. David,” she said steadily, 
though her limbs were trembling. “ He is my cousin. ” 

“ Your ladyship’s cousin?” exclaimed the woman, in 
surprise. “Oh, sir, that brings you closer to my heart! 
I’ve told my lady all about it.” 

“ How brave you were!” murmured Margery, as she 
drew her hand from Stuart’s firm clasp. 

“ Brave! I did nothing. But come, cousin — you ought 
to be going. Shall I see you home? Will you let me?” 

“ If you please. ” 

Margery bent and kissed the child softly, then put out 
her hand to Mrs. David. 

u I will come to-morrow and see how he is. Don’t for- 
get to send to-night.” 

“ I will not, thank you again and again, my lady!” 

Margery smiled, and walked to the door. The small 
homely room seemed suddenly illumined by a strange mys- 


226 


MARGERY DAW. 


terious light, golden and strong as the sun. Stuart drew 
the door after them, then put out his hand without a word, 
and Margery placed her own in his. 

He led her from the cottage to a sheltered spot, and then 
stood looking down at her with eyes that shone like stars 
in the passion of his love. 

“ Margery,” he said quietly, “ I have come to you. 
Have you no word of hope for me?” 

She .stood silent for an instant, then raised her love-lit 
eyes to his. 

“ One word,” she whispered — “ stay!” 

“ My darling, my own, my own forever, it has come at 
last!” 


THE END. 


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quently abridged and incomplete. Every number of The Seaside Library 
is unchanged and unabridged. 

Newsdealers wishing Catalogues of The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
bearing their imprint, will be supplied on sending their names, addresses, 
and number required. 

The works in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, are printed from 
larger type and on better paper than any other series published. 

The following works are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to 
any address, postage free, on receipt of price, by the publisher. Address 
(JEOIUIE MUNRO, IWnnro’s Publishing House, 

P. O: Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 

[When ordering by mail please order by numbers.] 


AUTHOR’S LIST. 


Works by the author of “ Addie’s 
Husband.*’ 

388 Addie’s Husband ; or, Through 


Clouds to Sunshine 10 

504 My Poor Wife 10 


Works by the author of “ A Fatal 
Dower.” 


It. M. Ballantyue’s Works. 


89 The Red Eric 10 

95 The Fire Brigade 10 

96 Erling the Bold 10 

Auue Beale’s Works. 

188 Idonea 20 

199 The Fisher Village 10 


246 A Fatal Dower 10 

372 Phyllis’ Probation 10 

461 His Wedded Wife 20 


Works by tlie author of “ A Great 


Mistake.” 

244 A Great Mistake 20 

588 Cherry' 10 

Works by the author of ‘‘A 
Woman’s Hove-Story.” 

322 A Woman’s Love-Story 10 

677 Griselda 2o 

Mrs. Alexander’s Works. 

5 The Admiral’s Ward 20 

17 The Wooing O’t. 20 

62 The Executor 20 

189 Valerie’s Fate 10 

229 Maid, Wife, or Widow? 10 

236 Which Shall it Be? 20 

339 Mrs. Vereker’s Courier Maid. . . 10 

490 A Second Life 20 

564 At Bay 10 


Alisou’s Works. 

194 “ So Near, and Yet So Far!”. . . 10 

278 For Life and Love 10 

481JThe House That Jack Built 10 

F. Anstey’s Works. 

59 Vice Versa 20 

225 The Giant’s Robe 20 

503 The Tinted Venus. A Farcical 

Romance 10 I 

. . . . 0 ) 


Basil’s Works. 

344 “ The Wearing of the Green ” . . 20 

547 A Coquette’s Conquest 20 

585 A Drawn Game 20 

M. Betham-Ed wards’s Works. 

273 Love and Mirage; or, The Wait- 
ing on an Island 10 

579 The Flower of Doom, and Other 

Stories 10 

594 Doctor Jacob 20 

Walter Besant’s Works. 

97 All in a Garden Fair 20 

137 Uncle Jack 10 

140 A Glorious Fortune 10 

146 Love Finds the Way, and Other 

Stories. By Besant and Rice 10 

230 Dorothy Forster 20 

324 In Luck at Last 10 

651 “ Self or Bearer ” 10 


William Black’s Works. 

1 Yolande 20 

18 Shandon Bells 20 

21 Sunrise : A Story of These 

Times 20 

23 A Princess of Thule 20 

39 In Silk Attire 20 

44 Macleod of Dare 20 

49 That Beautiful Wretch 20 

50 The Strange Adventures of a 

Phaeton 20 

70 White Wings: A Yachtiug Ro- 
mance 10 


TEE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


William Black’s Works— Con- 


tinued. 

78 Madcap Violet 20 

81 A Daughter of Heth 20 

124 Three Feathers 20 

125 The Monarch of Mincing Lane. 20 

126 Kilmeny 20 

138 Green Pastures and Piccadilly. 20 
265 Judith Shakespeare: Her Love 

Affairs and Other Adventures 20 
472 The Wise Women of Inverness. 10 
627 White Heather 20 

It. D. Blackmore’s Works. 

67 Lorua Doone. 1st half 20 

67 Lorna Doone. 2d half 20 

427 The Remarkable History of Sir 

Thomas Upmore, Bart., M. P. 20 

615 Mary Anerley 20 

625 Erema ; or, My Father’s Sin ... 20 

629 Cripps, the Carrier 20 

630 Cradoek Nowell. First half... 20 

630 Cradoek Nowell. Second half. 20 

631 Christowell. A Dartmoor Tale 20 

632 Clara Vaughan 20 

633 The Maid of Sker. First half. 20 
633 The Maid of Sker. Second half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. First half 20 

636 Alice Lorraine. Second half.. 20 

Miss M. E. Bratldon’s Works. 

35 Lady Audley’s Secret 20 

56 Phantom Fortune 20 

74 Aurora Floy.d 20 

110 Under the Red Flag 10 

153 The Golden Calf 20 

204 Vixen 20 

211 The Octoroon 10 

234 Barbara ; or, Splendid Misery. . 20 

263 An Ishmaelite 20 

315 The Mistletoe Bough. Edited 

by Miss Braddon 20 

434 Wy Hard’s Weird 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part 1 20 

478 Diavola; or, Nobody’s Daugh- 
ter. Part II 20 

480 Married in Haste. Edited by 
Miss M. E. Braddon 20 

487 Put to the Test. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

488 Joshua Haggard’s Daughter.. . . 20 

489 Rupert Godwin 20 

495 Mount Royal 20 

496 Only a Woman. Edited by Miss 

M. E. Braddon 20 

497 The Lady’s Mile 20 

498 Only a Clod 20 

499 The Cloven Foot 20 

511 A Strange World 20 

515 Sir Jasper’s Tenant 20 

524 Strangers and Pilgrims 20 

529 The Doctor’s Wife 20 

542 Fenton’s Quest 20 

544 Cut by the County; or, Grace 

Darnel 10 

548 The Fatal Marriage, and The 

Shadow in the Corner 10 


549 Dudley Carleon ; or. The Broth- 


er’s Secret, and George Caul- 
field’s Journey 10 

552 Hostages to Fortune 20 

553 Birds of Prey 20 

554 Charlotte’s Inheritance. (Se- 

quel to “ Birds of Prey ”) 20 

557 To the Bitter End 20 

559 Taken at the Flood 20 

560 Asphodel 20 

561 Just as I am ; or, A Living Lie 20 

567 Dead Men’s Shoes 20 

570 John Marchmont's Legacy. ... 20 
618 The Mistletoe Bough. Christ- 
mas, 1885. Edited by Miss M. 

E. Braddon 20 

Works by Charlotte 31. Braeme, 
Author of “Dora Thorne.” 

19 Her Mother’s Sin 10 

51 Dora Thorne 20 

54 A Broken Wedding-Ring 20 

68 A Queen Amongst Women 10 

69 Madolin’s Lover 20 

73 Redeemed by Love 20 

76 Wife in Name Only 20 

79 Wedded and Parted 10 

92 Lord Lynne’s Choice 10 

148 Thorns and Orange-Blossoms.. 10 

190 Romance of a Black Veil 10 

220 Which Loved Him Best? 10 

237 Repented at Leisure 20 

249 “ Prince Charlie’s Daughter ” . . 10 

250 Sunshine and Roses; or, Di- 

ana’s Discipline 10 

254 The Wife’s Secret, and Fair 

but False 10 

283 The Sin of a Lifetime 10 

287 At War With Herself 10 

288 From Gloom to Sunlight 10 

291 Love’s Warfare 10 

292 A Golden Heart 10 

293 The Shadow of a Sin 10 

294 Hilda 10 

295 A Woman’s War 10 

296 A Rose in Thorns 10 

297 Hilary’s Folly 10 

299 The Fatal Lilies, and A Bride 

from the Sea 10 

300 A Gilded Sin, and A Bridge of 

Love.. 10 

303 Ingledew House, and More Bit- 

ter than Death 10 

304 In Cupid’s Net 10 

305 A Dead Heart, and Lady Gwen- 

doline’s Dream 10 

306 A Golden Dawn, and Love for 

a Day 10 

307 Two Kisses, and Like no Other 

Love 10 

308 Beyond Pardon 20 

411 A Bitter Atonement 20 

433 My Sister Kate 10 

459 A Woman’s Temptation 20 

460 Under a Shadow 20 

465 The Earl’s Atonement 20 

466 Between Two Loves 20 

467 A Struggle for a Ring 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition , 


Works by Charlotte M. Bracine- 
Contiuued. 


469 Lady Darner’s Secret 20 

470 Evelyn’s Folly 20 

471 Thrown on the World 20 

476 Between Two Sins 10 

516 Put Asunder ; or. Lady Castle- 

maine’s Divorce 20 

576 Her Martyrdom 20 

626 A Fair Mystery 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, 
The Romance of a Young 

Girl 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 
gle for Love 20 


Charlotte Bronte’s Works. 

15 Jane Eyre 20 

57 Shirley 20 

Rhoda Broughton’s Works. 

86 Belinda 20 

101 Second Thoughts. . . 20 

227 Nancy 20 

645 Mrs. Smith of Longmains 10 

Robert Buchanan’s Works. 

145 “ Storm-Beaten God and The 

Man 20 

154 Annan Water 20 

181 The New Abelard 10 

398 Matt : A Tale of a Caravan 10 

646 The Master of the Mine 10 

647 Goblin Gold 10 


Captain Fred Burnaby’s Works. 


375 A Ride to Khiva 20 

384 On Horseback Through Asia 

Minor 20 

I£. Fairfax Byrrne’s Works. 

521 Entangled 20 

538 A Fair Country Maid 20 

Hall Caine’s Works. 

445 Tile Shadow of a Crime 20 

520 She’s All the World to Me 10 

Rosa Nouchette Carey’s Works. 

215 Not Like Other Girls 20 

396 Robert Ord’s Atonement 20 

551 Barbara Heathcote’s Trial 20 

608 For Lilias 20 

Wilkie Collins’s Works. 

52 The New Magdalen 10 

102 The Moonstone 20 

167 Heart and Science 20 

188 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 10 

175 Love’s Random Shot 10 

233 “ I Say No or, The Love-Let- 
ter Answered 20 

508 The Girl at the Gate 10 

591 The Queen of Hearts 20 

613 The Ghost’s Touch, and Percy 

and the Prophet 10 

623 My Lady’s Money 10 

701 The Woman in White. 1st half 20 

(3) 


701 The Woman in White. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. 1st half. 20 

702 Man and Wife. 2d half 20 


Hugh Conway’s Works* 

240 Called Back 10 

251 The Daughter of the Stars, and 
Other Tales 10 

301 Dark Days 10 

302 The Blatchford Bequest 10 

502 Carriston’s Gift 10 

525 Paul Vargas, and Other Stories 10 

543 A Family Affair 20 

601 Slings and Arrows, and Other 

Stories 10 

711 A Cai’dinal Sin 20 


J. Fenimore Cooper’s Works. 

60 The Last of the Mohicans 20 

63 The Spy 20 

309 The Pathfinder 20 

310 The Prairie 20 

318 The Pioneers; or, The Sources 

of the Susquehanna 20 

349 The Two Admirals 20 

359 The Water-Witch 20 

361 The Red Rover 20 

373 Wing and Wing 20 

378 Homeward Bound; or, The 

Chase 20 

379 Home as Found. (Sequel to 

“ Homeward Bound”) 20 

380 Wyandotte; or, The Hutted 

Knoll 20 

385 The Headsman; or, The Ab- 

baye des Vignerons 20 

394 The Bravo 20 

397 Lionel Lincoln; or, The Leag- 
uer of Boston 20 

400 The Wept of Wish-Ton-Wish. . . 20 

413 Afloat and Ashore 20 

414 Miles Wallingford. (Sequel to 

“Afloat and Ashore”) 20 

415 The Ways of the Hour 20 

416 Jack Tier; or. The Florida Reef 20 

419 TheChainbearer; or, The Little- 

page Manuscripts 20 

420 Satanstoe; or, The Littlepage 

Manuscripts 20 

421 The Redskins; or, Indian and 

Injin. Being the conclusion 
of the Littlepage Manuscripts 20 

422 Precaution 20 

423 The Sea Lions; or, The Lost 

Sealers 20 

424 Mercedes of Castile; or, The 

Voyage to Cathay 20 

425 The Oak-Openings ; or, The Bee- 

Hunter 20 

431 The Monikins 20 


Georgiana M. Craik’s Works. 


450 Godfrey Helstone 20 

606 Mrs. Hollyer 20 


B. M. Croker’s Works. 


207 Pretty Miss Neville 20 

260 Proper Pride 10 

412 Some One Else 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


May Croinmeliu’s Works. 

452 In the West Countrie 

619 Joy; or, The Light of Cold- 

Home Ford 

Alphonse Daudet’s Works. 

534 Jack. ••• 

574 The Nabob; A Story of Parisian 
Life and Manners 

Charles Dickens’s Works. 

10 The Old Curiosity Shop 

22 David Cdpperfield. Vol. I 

22 David Copperfield. Vol. II — 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. I 

24 Pickwick Papers. Vol. II 

37 Nicholas Nickleby. First half. 
37 Nicholas Nickleby. Second half 

41 Oliver Twist 

77 A Tale of Two Cities 

84 Hard Times 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 1st half 

91 Barnaby Rudge. 2d half 

94 Little Dorrit. First half 

94 Little Dorrit. Second half 

106 Bleak House. First half 

106 Bleak House. Second half 

107 Dombey and Son. 1st half 

107 Dombey and Son. 2d half 

108 The Cricket on the Hearth, and 

Doctor Marigold 

131 Our Mutual Friend, (lsthalf). 

131 Our Mutual Friend. (2d half).. 

132 Master Humphrey’s Clock 

152 The Uncommercial Traveler. .. 

168 No Thoroughfare. By Dickens 

and Collins 

169 The Haunted Man 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 

Chuzzlewit. First half 

437 Life and Adventures of Martin 
Chuzzlewit. Second half 

439 Great Expectations 

440 Mrs. Lirriper’s Lodgings 

447 American Notes 

448 Pictures From Italy, and The 

Mud fog Papers. &c 

454 The Mystery of Edwin Drood.. 
456 Sketches by Boz. Illustrative 
of Every-day Life and Every- 
day People 

676 A Child’s History of England . 

F. Du Boisgolxey’s Works. 

82 Sealed Lips 

104 The Coral Pin. 1st half 

104 The Coral Pin. 2d half 

264 Pi6douche, a French Detective. 
328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 

First half 

328 Babiole, the Pretty Milliner. 
Second half 

453 The Lottery Ticket 

475 The Prima Donna’s Husband. . 

522 Zig-Zag, the Clown; or, Steel 

Gauntlets 

523 The Consequences of a Duel. A 

Parisian Romance 


The Angel of the Bells 30 

The Pretty Jailer. 1st half 20 

The Pretty Jailer. 2d half 20 

The Sculptor’s Daughter. 1st 

half 20 

The Sculptor’s Daughter. 2d 
half 20 


“The Duchess’s” Works. 

Molly Bawn 

Portia 

Airy Fairy Lilian 

Phyllis 

Mrs. Geoffrey 

Beauty’s Daughters 

Faith and Unfaith 

Loys, Lord Berresford, and 

Eric Dering 

Monica, and A Rose Distill’d. . . 

Sweet is True Love 

Rossmoyne 

The Witching Hour, and Other 

Stories 

“That Last Rehearsal,” and 

Other Stories 

Moonshine and Marguerites.... 

Fortune’s Wheel 

Doris 

A Week in Killarney 

The Baby, and One New Year’s 

Eve 

Mildred Trevanion 

In Durance Vile, and Other 

Stories.- 

Dick’s Sweetheart 

A Maiden All Forlorn, and Bar- 
bara 

A Passive Crime, and Other 

Stories 

“ As It Fell Upon a Day.” 

Lady Branksmere 

Alexander Dumas’s Works. 

The Three Guardsmen 

Twenty Years After 

The Bride of Monte-Cristo. A 
Sequel to “The Count of 

Monte-Cristo ” 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part I 

The Count of Monte-Cristo. 

Part II 

Beau Tancrede; or, The Mar- 
x-iage Verdict 

George Eliot’s Works, 

The Mill on the Floss 

Adam Bede 

Middlemarch. 1st half 

Middlemarch. 2d half 

Daniel Deronda. 1st half 

Daniel Deronda. 2d half 

Romola 

Felix Holt, the Radical 

Silas Maruer: The Weaver of 


Raveloe 10 

Janet’s Repentance 10 


648 

20 697 

697 

20 699 

699 

20 

20 

2 

6 

20 14 

20 16 

20 25 

20 29 

20 30 

20 118 

20 

20 119 

20 123 

10 129 

20 134 

20 

20 136 

20 

20 166 

20 171 

20 284 

20 312 

342 

10 

20 390 

20 404 

10 

20 486 

494 

10 

10 517 

20 541 

733 

20 

20 

10 

20 55 

75 

20 259 

20 

262 

20 

20 262 

717 

20 

20 

20 

10 3 

36 

20 31 

31 

20 34 

20 34 

20 42 

693 

20 707 

20 728 

(4) 




THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition. 


B. Li. Farjeon’s Works. 

179 Little Make-Believe 10 

573 Love’s Harvest 20 

607 Self-Doomed 10 

616 The Sacred Nugget 20 

657 Christinas Angel 10 

G. Manville Fenn’s Works, 

193 The Rosery Folk 10 

558 Poverty Corner 20 

587 The Parson o’ Dumford 20 

609 The Dark House 10 

Octave Feuillet’s Works. 

66 The Romance of a Poor Young 

Man 10 

386 Led Astray; or, “La Petite 

Comtesse ” 10 

'Mrs. Forrester's Works. 

80 June 20 

280 Omnia Vanitas. A Tale of So- 
ciety 10 

484 Although He Was a Lord, and 

Other Tales 10 

715 I Have Lived and Loved 20 

721 Dolores 20 

724 My Lord and My Lady 20 

726 My Hero * 20 

727 Fair Women 20 

729 Mignon 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades 20 

734 Viva 20 

736 Roy and Viola 20 

740 Rhona 20 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 
an’s Sake 20 


Arthur Griffiths’s Works. 

614 No. 99 10 

680 Fast and Loose 20 

Thomas Hardy’s Works. 

139 The Romantic Adventures of 

a Milkmaid 10 

530 A Pair of Blue Ey T es 20 

690 Far From the Madding Crowd . 20 

Johu B. Harwood’s Works. 

143 One False, Both Fair •. 20 

358 Within the Clasp 20 

Mary Cecil Hay’s Works. 

65 Back to the Old Home 10 

72 Old Myddelton’s Money 20 

196 Hidden Perils . 10 

197 For Her Dear Sake 20 

224 The Aruudel Motto 20 

281 The Squire’s Legacy 20 

290 Nora’s Love Test 20 

408 Lester’s Secret 20 

678 Dorothy’s Venture. 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished 20 

Tighe Hopkins’s Works. 

509 Nell Haffenden 20 

114 ’Twixt Love and Duty 20 

Works by the Author of “ Judith 
Wynne.” 

332 Judith Wynne 20 

506 Lady Lovelace 20 

William H. G. Kingston’s Works. 

117 A Tale of the Shore and Ocean. 20 
133 Peter the Whaler 10 


Jessie Fothergill’s Works. 

314 Peril 20 

572 Healey ... 20 

R. E. Francillon’s Works. 

135 A Great Heiress : A Fortune 

in Seven Checks 10 

319 Face to Face : A Fact in Seven 

Fables 10 

360 Ropes of Sand 20 

656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 

Francillou and Wm. Senior.. 10 
656 The Golden Flood. By R. E. 


Francillon and Wm. Senior. . 10 
Emile Gaboriau’s Works. 

7 File No. 113 20 

12 Other People’s Money 20 

20 Within an Inch of His Life 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol 1 20 

26 Monsieur Lecoq. Vol. II 20 

33 The Clique of Gold 10 

38 The Widow Lerouge 20 

43 The Mystery of Orcival 20 

144 Promises of Marriage 10 

Charles Gibbon’s Works. 

64 A Maiden Fair 10 

317 By Mead and Stream 20 

Miss Grant’s Works. 

222 The Sun-Maid 20 

555 Cara Roma 20 


Charles Lever’s Works. 


191 Harry Lorrequer 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. First half 20 

212 Charles O’Malley, the Irish Dra- 
goon. Second half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “Ours.” First 

half 20 

243 Tom Burke of “ Ours.” Sec- 
ond half 20 

Mary Linskill’s Works. 

473 A Lost Son 20 

620 Between the Heather and the 

Northern Sea 20 

Samuel Lover’s Works. 

663 Handy Andy 20 

664 Rory O’More 20 

Sir E. Bulwer Lytton’s Works. 

40 The Last Days of Pompeii 20 

83 A Strange Story 20 

90 Ernest Malt ravers 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. First 

half 20 

130 The Last of the Barons. Sec- 
ond half 20 

162 Eugene Aram 20 

164 Leila; or. The Siege of Grenada 10 
650 Alice; or, The Mysteries. (ASe- 
quel to “ Ernest Mai tra vers ”) 20 
720 Paul Clifford 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 


George Macdonald’s Works. 


282 Donal Grant 20 

325 The Portent 10 

326 Phantastes. A Faerie Romance 

for Men and Women 10 

722 What’s Mine’s Mine 20 

Florence Marryat’s Works, 

159 A Moment of Madness, and 

Other Stories 10 

183 Old Contrairy, and Other 

Stories 10 

208 The Ghost of Charlotte Cray, 

and Other Stories 10 

276 Under the Lilies and Roses 10 

444 The Heart of Jane Warner 20 

449 Peeress and Player 20 

689 The Heir Presumptive 20 

Captain Marryat’s Works. 

88 The Privateersman 20 

272 The Little Savage 10 

Helen B. Mathers’s Works. 

13 Eyre’s Acquittal 10 

221 Cornin’ Thro’ the Rye 20 

438 Found Out 10 

535 Murder or Manslaughter? 10 

673 Story of a Sin 20 

713 “ Cherry Ripe ” 20 

Justin McCarthy’s Works. 

121 Maid of Athens 20 

602 Camiola 20 

685 England Under Gladstone. 

1880-1885 20 


747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. McCarthy, M.P. . 10 

Mrs. Alex. McVeigh Miller’s 


Works. 

267 Laurel Vane; or, The Girls’ 

Conspiracy 20 

268 Lady Gay’s Pride; or, The 

Miser’s Treasure 20 

269 Lancaster's Choice 20 

316 Sworn to Silence; or. Aline 

Rodney’s Secret 20 

Jean Middlemas’s Works. 

155 Lady Muriel’s Secret 20 

539 Silvermead. 20 

Alan Muir’s Works. 

172 “ Golden Girls” 20 

346 Tumbledown Farm 10 

Miss Mulock’s Works. 

11 John Halifax, Gentleman 20 

245 Miss Tommy 10 

David Christie Murray’s Works. 

58 By the Gate of the Sea •. . 10 

195 “ The Way of the World ” 20 

320 A Bit of Human Nature 10 

661 Rainbow Gold 20 

674 First Person Singular 20 

691 Valentine Strange 20 

695 Hearts: Queen, Knave, and 

Deuce 20 

698 A Life's Atonement 20 

737 Aum Rachel..... 10 


Works by the author of “ My 
Ducats and My Daughter.” 

376 The Crime of Christmas Day. 10 
596 My Ducats and My Daughter... 20 

W. E. Norris’s Works. 


184 Thirlby Hall 20 

277 A Man of His Word 10 

355 That Terrible Man 10 

500 Adrian Vidal 20 

Laurence Oliphant’s Works. 

47 Altiora Peto 20 

537 Piccadilly 10 

Mrs. Oliphant’s Works. 

45 A Little Pilgrim 10 

177 Salem Chapel 20 

205 The Minister’s Wife 30 

321 The Prodigals, and Their In- 
heritance 10 

337 Memoirs and Resolutions of 
Adam Graeme of Mossgray, 
including some Chronicles of 

the Borough of Fendie 20 

345 Madam 20 

351 The House on the Moor 20 

357 John 20 

370 Lucy Crofton 10 

371 Margaret Maitland 20 

377 Magdalen Hepburn : A Story of 

the Scottish Reformation 20 

402 Lilliesleaf; or. Passages in the 
Life of Mrs Margaret Mait- 
land of Sunnyside 20 

410 Old Lady Mary 10 

527 The Davs of My Life 20 

528 At His Gates 20 

568 The Perpetual Curate 20 

569 Harry Muir 20 

603 Agnes. 1st half 20 

603 Agnes. 2d half 20 

604 Innocent. 1st half 20 

604 Innocent. 2d half 20 

605 Ombra 20 

645 Oliver’s Bride 10 

655 The Open Door, and The Por- 
trait 10 

687 A Country Gentleman 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself 20 
710 The Greatest Heiress in England 20 

“ Ouida’s ” Works. 

4 Under Two Flags 20 

9 Wanda, Countess von Szalras. 20 

116 Moths 20 

128 Afternoon and Other Sketches. 10 

226 Friendship 20 

228 Princess Napraxine 20 

238 Pascarel 20 

239 Signa. . 20 

433 A Rainy June 10 

639 Othmar 20 

671 Don Gesualdo 10 

672 In Maremma. First half 20 

672 In Maremma. Second half 20 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. — Pocket Edition. 


James Payn’s Works. 

18 Thicker Than Water 20 

186 The Canon’s Ward 20 

343 The Talk of the Town 20 

•577 In Peril and Privation 10 

589 The Luck of the Darrells 20 

Miss Jane Porter’s Works. 

660 The Scottish Chiefs. 1st half.. 20 
660 The Scottish Chiefs. 2d half.. 20 
696 Thaddeus of Warsaw 20 

Cecil Power’s Works. 

336 Philistia 20 

611 Babylon 20 

Mrs. Campbell Praed’s Works. 

428 Zero: A Story of Monte-Carlo. 10 
477 Affinities 10 

Eleanor C. Price’s Works. 

173 The Foreigners 20 

331 Gerald 20 

Charles Keade’s Works. 

46 Very Hard Cash 20 

98 A Woman-Hater 20 

206 The Picture, and Jack of All 

Trades 10 

210 Readiaua: Comments on Cur- 
rent Events 10 

213 A Terrible Temptation 20 

214 Put Yourself in His Place 20 

216 Foul Play 20 

231 Griffith Gaunt; or, Jealousy... 20 

232 Love and Money ; or, A Perilous 

Secret 10 

235 “It is Never Too Late to 
Mend.” A Matter-of-Fact Ro- 
mance 20 

'Mrs. J. H. Riddell’s Works. 

71 A Struggle for Fame 20 

593 Berna Boyle 20 

“Rita’s” Works, 

252 A Sinless Secret 10 

446 Dame Durden 20 

598 “ Corinna.” A Study 10 

617 Like Dian’s Kiss 20 

F. W. Robinson’s Works. 

157 Milly’sHero 20 

217 The Man She Cared For 20 

261 A Fair Maid 20 

455 Lazarus in London 20 

590 The Courting of Marj r Smith. .. 20 

W. Clark Russell’s Works. 

85 A Sea Queen 20 

109 Little Loo 20 

180 Round the Galley Fire 10 

209 John Holdsworth, Chief Mate. . 10 

223 A Sailor’s Sweetheart 20 

592 A Strange Voyage 20 

682 In the Middle Watch. Sea 

Stories 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. 1st half — 20 
743 Jack’s Courtship. 2d half 20 


( 7 ) 


Sir Walter Scott’s Works. 

28 Ivanhoe 20 

201 The Monastery 20 

202 The Abbot. (Sequel to “The 

Monastery ”) ; . . 20 

353 The Black Dwarf, and A Le- 
gend of Montrose 20 

362 The Bride of Lammermoor 20 

363 The Surgeon’s Daughter : 10 

364 Castle Dangerous 10 

391 The Heart of Mid-Lothian 20 

392 Peveril of the Peak 20 

393 The Pirate 20 

401 Waverley 20 

417 The Fair Maid of Perth; or, St. 

Valentine’s Day 20 

418 St. Rouan’s Weli 20 

463 Redgauntlet. A Tale of the 

Eighteenth Century 20 

507 Chronicles of the Canongate, 
and Other Stories 10 

William Sime’s Works. 

429 Boulderstone; or, New Men and 

Old Populations 10 

580 The Red Route 20 

597 Haco the Dreamer 10 

649 Cradle and Spade 20 

Hawley Smart’s Works. 

348 From Post to Finish. A Racing 

Romance 20 

367 Tie and Trick 20 

550 Struck Down 10 

Frank E. Smedley’s Works. 

333 Frank Fairlegh; or, Scenes 
from the Life of a Private 

Pupil 20 

562 Lewis Arundel; or, The Rail- 
road of Life 20 

T. W. Speight’s Works. 

150 For Himself Alone 10 

653 A Barren Title 10 

Robert Louis Stevenson's Works. 

686 Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and 

Mr. Hyde 10 

704 Prince Otto 10 

Julian Sturgis’s Works. 

405 My Friends and I. Edited by 

Julian Sturgis 10 

694 John Maidment 20 


Eugene Sue’s Works. 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part I . . . 20 

270 The Wandering Jew. Part II. . 20 

271 The Mysteries of Paris. Parti. 20 
271 The Mysteries of Paris. Part II. 20 

George Temple’s Works. 


599 Lancelot Ward, M.P 10 

642 Britta 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY. -Pocket Edition . 


William M. Thackeray’s W r orks. 


27 Vanity Fair 20 

165 The History of Henry Esmond. 20 

464 The Newcomes. Parti 20 

464 The Newcomes. Part II 20 

531 The Prime Minister (1st half).. 20 
531 The Prime Minister (2d half).. 20 
670 The Rose and the Ring. Illus- 
trated 10 

Aunie Thomas’s Works. 

141 She Loved Him! 10 

142 Jenifer • 20 

565 No Medium 10 

Anthony Trollope’s Works. 

32 The Land Leaguers 20 

93 Anthony Trollope’s Autobiog- 
raphy 20 

147 Rachel Ray 20 

200 An Old Man’s Love 10 

531 The Prime Minister. 1st half. . 20 
531 The Prime Minister. 2d half. .. 20 

621 The Warden 10 

622 Harry Heathcote of Gangoil. . . 10 
667 The Golden Lion of Granpere . . 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 1st half 20 

700 Ralph the Heir. 2d half 20 

Margaret Veley’s Works. 

298 Mitchelhurst Place 10 

586 “ For Percival ” 20 

Jules Verne’s W r orks. 

87 Dick Sand; or, A Captain at 

Fifteen 20 

100 20,000 Leagues Under the Seas. 20 
368 The Southern Star; or, the Dia- 
mond Land 20 

395 The Archipelago on Fire 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part I 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Part II 10 

578 Mathias Sandorf. Illustrated. 

Partlll 20 

659 The Waif of the “ Cynthia ”... 20 

li. B. Wal ford’s Works. 

241 The Baby’s Grandmother 10 

256 Mr. Smith : A Part of His Life. 20 

258 Cousins 20 

658 The History of a Week. .... 10 

F. W’arden’s Works. 

192 At the World’s Mercy 20 

248 The House on the Marsh. . . . . 10 

286 Deldee; or, The Iron Hand 20 

482 A Vagrant Wife 20 

556 A Prince of Darkness 20 


E. Werner’s Works. 

327 Raymond’s Atonement 20 

540 At a High Price 20 


fi.'J. Wliyte-Mel vllle’s Works. 


409 Roy’s Wife 20 

451 Market Harborough, and Inside 

the Bar 20 

John Strange Winter’s Works. 

492 Mignon ; or, Booties' Baby. Il- 
lustrated 10 

600 Houp-La. Illustrated 10 

638 In Quarters with the 25th (The 

Black Horse) Dragoons 10 

688 A Man of Honor. Illustrated.. 10 
746 Cavalry Life ; or, Sketches and 
Stories in Barracks and Out. . 20 


Mrs. Henry Wood’s Works. 


8 East Lynne 20 

255 The Mystery 20 

277 The Surgeon’s Daughters 10 

508 The Unholy Wish 10 

513 Helen Whitney’s Wedding, and 

Other Tales 10 

514 The Mystery of Jessy Page, and 

Other Tales 10 

610 The Story of Dorothy Grape, 

and Other Tales. 10 

Charlotte M. Yonge’s Works. 

247 The Armourer's Prentices 10 

275 The Three Brides 10 

535 Henrietta’s Wish. ATale 10 

563 The Two Sides of the Shield 20 

640 Nuttie’s Father 20 

665 The Dove in the Eagle’s Nest. . 20 

666 My Young Alcides: A Faded 

Photograph 20 

739 The Caged Lion . . 20 

742 Love and Life 20 

Miscellaneous. 

53 The Story of Ida. Francesca. . 10 
61 Charlotte Temple. Mrs. Row- 

son 10 

99 Barbara’s Histor}\ Amelia B. 

Edwards... 20 

103 Rose Fleming. Dora Russell . . 10 
105 A Noble Wife. John Saunders 20 

111 The Little School-master Mark. 

J. H. Shorthouse 10 

112 The Waters of Marah. John 

Hill 20 

113 Mrs. Carr’s Companion. M. G. 

Wightwick 10 

114 Some of Our Girls. Mrs. C. J. 

Eiloart 20 

115 Diamond Cut Diamond. T. 

Adolphus Trollope 10 

120 Tom Brown’s School Days at 

Rugby. Thomas Hughes 20 

122 lone Stewart. Mrs. E. Lynn 

Linton 20 

127 Adrian Bright. Mrs. Caddy 20 

149 The Captain’s Daughter. From 

the Russian of Pushkin 10 

151 The Ducie Diamonds. C. Blath- 
er wick 10 


THE SEASIDE LIBRA R Y. — Pocket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Continued. 

156 “For a Dream’s Sake.” Mrs. 

Herbert Martin 

158 The Starliug. Norman Mac- 
leod, D.D 

160 Her Gentle Deeds. Sarah Tyt- 

ler 

161 The Lady of Lyons. Founded 
. on the Play of that title by 

Lord Lytton 

163 Winifred Power. Joyce Dar- 
rell 

170 A Great Treason. Mary Hop- 

pus 

174 Under a Ban. Mrs. Lodge 

176 An April Day. Philippa Prit- 

tie Jephson 

178 More Leaves from the Journal 
of a Life in the Highlands. 

Queen Victoria 

182 The Millionaire 

185 Dita. Lady Margaret Majendie 
187 The Midnight Sun. Fredrika 

Bremer 

198 A Husband’s Story 

203 John Bull and His Island. Max 
O’Rell 

218 Agnes Sorel. G. P. It. James. . 

219 Lady Clare : or. The Master of 

the Forges. From French of 

Georges Ohnet 

242 The Two Orphans. D’Ennery. 
253 The Amazon. Carl Vosmaer. . 
257 Beyond Recall. Adeline Ser- 
geant 

266 The Water-Babies. Rev. Chas. 

Kingsley 

274 Alice, Grand Duchess of Hesse, 
Princess of Great Britain and 
Ireland. Biographical Sketch 

and Letters * 

279 Little Goldie : A Story of Wom- 
an’s Love. Mrs. Sumner Hay- 
den 

285 The Gambler’s Wife 

289 John Bull’s Neighbor in Her 
True Light. A “ Brutal Sax- 
on ” 

311 Two Years Before the Mast. R. 

H. Dana, Jr : 

313 The Lover’s Creed. Mrs. Cash- 
el Hoey 

323 A Willful Maid 

329 The Polish Jew. (Translated 

from the French by Caroline 
A. Merighi.) Erckmann-Chat- 
rian 

330 May Blossom ; or, Between Two 

Loves. Margaret Lee 

334 A Marriage of Convenience. 

Harriett Jay 

335 The White Witch 

338 The Family Difficulty. Sarah 

Doudney 

340 Under Which King? Compton 

Reade 

341 Madolin Rivers; or, The Little 

Beauty of Red Oak Seminary. 
Laura Jean Libbey 


As Avon Flows. Henry Scott 


Vince 20 

Diana of the Crossways. George 

Meredith 10 

At Any Cost. Edward Garrett. 10 

The Lottery of Life. A Story 
of New York Twenty Years 
Ago. John Brougham 20 


The Princess Dagomar of Po- 
land. Heinrich Felbermann. 10 
A Good Hater. Frederick Boyle 20 
George Christy; or, The For- 
tunes of a Minstrel. Tony 


Pastor 20 

The Mysterious Hunter; or, 
The Man of Death. Capt. L. 

C. Carleton 20 

Miss Bretherton. Mrs. Hum- 
phry Ward 10 

The Dead Man’s Secret. Dr. 

Jupiter Paeon 20 

The Red Cardinal. Frances 

Elliot 10 

Three Sisters. Elsa D’Esterre- 

Keeling 10 

Introduced to Society. Hamil- 
ton Aid 6 10 

The Secret of the Clift's. Char- 
lotte French .. . 20 

Ichabod. A Portrait. Bertha 

Thomas 10 

Miss Brown. Vernon Lee 20 

An English Squire. C. R. Cole- 
ridge 20 

The Merchant’s Clerk. Samuel 

Warren 10 

Tylney Hall. Thomas Hood ... 20 

Venus’s Doves. Ida Ashworth 

Taylor 20 

A Bitter Reckoning. Author 

of “By Crooked Paths ” 10 

The Witch’s Head. H. Rider 

Haggard 20 

Klytia : A Story of Heidelberg 

Castle. George Taylor 20 

Stella. Fanny Lewald 20 

A Sea Change. Flora L. Shaw. 20 
Ranthorpe. George Henry 

Lewes 20 

The Bachelor of the Albany... 10 

The Russians at the Gates of 

Herat. Charles Marvin 10 

A Week of Passion; or, The 
Dilemma of Mr. George Bar- 
ton the Younger. Edward 

Jenkins 20 

Alice’s Adventures in Wonder- 
land. By Lewis Carroll. 
With forty-two illustrations 

by John Tenniel 20 

The Fortunes, Good and Bad, 
of a Sewing-Girl. Charlotte 

M. Stanley 10 

Serapis. An Historical Novel. 

George Ebers 20 

Louisa. Katharine S. Macquoid 20 

Betwixt My Love and Me 10 

Tinted Vapours. J. Maclaren 
Cobban 10 




347 

20 350 

10 352 

354 

10 

355 

10 

356 

20 365 

30 

20 366 

10 

369 

10 374 

20 

10 381 

10 382 

10 

383 

10 

20 387 

389 

10 

10 399 

10 403 

10 406 

10 407 

426 

430 

10 

432 

20 435 

20 

436 

441 

10 442 

20 443 

457 

20 

20 458 

10 462 

20 

10 468 

20 

10 474 

20 479 

483 

485 

20 

( 9 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Docket Edition. 


Miscellaneous— Con United. 

491 Society in London. A Foreign 

Resident 10 

493 Colonel Enderby’s Wife. Lucas 

Malet 20 

501 Mr. Butler’s Ward. F. Mabel 

Robinson 20 

510 A Mad Love. Author of “ Lover 

and Lord” 10 

512 The Waters of Hercules 20 

504 Curly: An Actor’s Story. John 

Coleman 10 

505 The Society of London. Count 

Paul Vasili 10 

509 Nell Haffenden. Tighe Hopkins 20 

518 The Hidden Sin 20 

519 James Gordon’s Wife 20 

526 Madame De Presnel. E. Fran- 
ces Poynter 20 

532 Arden Court. Barbara Graham 20 

536 Dissolving Views. By Mrs. An- 
drew Lang 10 

545 Vida’s Story. By the author of 

“ Guilty Without Crime ” 10 

546 Mrs. Keith’s Crime. A Novel.. 10 

533 Hazel Kirke. Marie Walsh 20 

566 The Royal Highlanders ; or, 

The Black Watch in Egypt. 

James Grant : 20 

571 Paul Crew’s Story. Alice Co- 
rny ns Carr 10 

575 The Finger of Fate. Captain 
Mayne Reid 20 

581 The Betrothed. (I Promessi 

Sf>osi.) Allessandro Manzoni 20 

582 Lucia, Hugh and Another. Mrs. 

J. H. Needed 20 

583 Victory Deane. Ceeil Griffith . . 20 

584 Mixed Motives 10 

595 A North Country Maid. Mrs. 

H. Lovett Cameron „ . . 20 

599 Lancelot Ward, M.P. George 

Temple 10 

612 My Wife’s Niece. By the author 

of “ Dr. Edith Romney ” 20 

624 Primus in Indis. M. J. Colqu- 

houn 10 

628 Wedded Hands. Author of 

“ My Lady’s Folly ” 20 

634 The Unforeseen. Alice O’Han- 
lon 20 

637 What’s His Offence? 20 

641 The Rabbi’s Spell. Stuart C. 
Cumberland 10 

643 The Sketch-Book of Geoffrey 

Crayon, Gent. Washington 
Irving 20 

644 A Girton Girl. Mrs. Annie Ed- 

wards 20 


652 The Lady with the Rubies. E. 

Marlitt 20 

654 “Us.” An Old-fashioned Story. 

Mrs. Molesworth 10 

662 The Mystery of Allan Grale. 

Isabella Fyvie Mayo 20 

668 Half-Way. An Anglo-French 

Romance 20 

669 The Philosophy of Whist. By 

William Pole 20 

675 Mrs. Dymond. Miss Thackeray 20 
679 Where Two Ways Meet. Sarah 

Doudney 10 

681 A Singer’s Story. May Laffan. 10 

683 The Bachelor Vicar of New- 

forth. Mrs. J. Harcourt-Roe. 20 

684 Last Days at Apswich 10 

692 The Mikado, and Other Comic 

Operas. Written by W. S. 
Gilbert. Composed by Arthur 
Sullivan 20 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Me. By 
Isa Blagden 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

Bradshaws 10 

708 Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 

709 Zenobia; or. The Fall of Pal- 

myra. By William Ware. 

1st half 20 

709 Zenobia: or. The Fall of Pal- 


myra. By William Ware. 

2d half 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 20 
Allen ; 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Mrs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

719 Childe Harold’s Pilgrimage. By 

Lord Byron 10 

723 Mauleverer's Millions. By T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

725 My Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 

min Franklin 10 

731 The Bayou Bride. By Mrs. Mary 

E. Bryan 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

748 Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon Emily Lawless 20 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Mabel Collins 20 

757 Love’s Martyr. By Laurence 

AlmaTadema 10 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 


The foregoing works, contained in Thjc Skasidk Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 
dress 

GEOKGE MUMtO, 

MUNRO’S PUBLISHING HOUSE, 

P. O. Box 3751. 17 to 27 Vandewater Street, N. Y. 


( 10 ) 


THE SEASIDE LIBRARY.— Pocket Edition. 

LATEST ISSUES: 


NO. PRICE. 

626 A, Fair Mystery. By Charlotte 
M. Braeme, author of “ Dora 

Thorne” 20 

701 The Woman in White. Wilkie 
Collins. Illustrated. 1st half 20 

701 The Woman in White. Wilkie 

Collins. Illustrated. 2d half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 


lins. First half 20 

702 Man and Wife. By Wilkie Col- 

lins. Second half 20 

703 A House Divided Against Itself. 

By Airs. Oliphant 20 

704 Prince Otto. By R. L. Steven- 

son 10 

705 The Woman I Loved, and the 

Woman Who Loved Ale. By 
Isa Blagden 10 

706 A Crimson Stain. By Annie 

Bradshaw 10 

707 Silas Alarner. The Weaver of 

Raveloe. By George Eliot. . . 10 
70S Ormond. By Maria Edgeworth 20 


709 Zenobia ; or, the Fall of Palmyra 
By William Ware. 1st half. . 20 

709 Zenobia; or, the Fall of Palmyra 

By William Ware. 2d half. . . 20 

710 The Greatest Heiress in Eng- 


land. By Airs. Oliphant 20 

711 A Cardinal Sin. By Hugh Con- 

way 20 

712 For Maimie’s Sake. By Grant 

Allen 20 

713 “Cherry Ripe!” By Helen B. 

Alathers 20 

714 ’Twixt Love and Duty. By 

Tighe Hopkins 20 

715 I Have Lived and Loved. By 

Airs. Forrester 20 

716 Victor and Vanquished. By 

Alary Cecil Hay 20 

717 Beau Tancrede; or, the Alar- 

riage Verdict. By Alexander 
Dumas 20 

718 Unfairly Won. By Airs. Power 

O’Donoghue 20 

720 Paul Clifford. By Sir E. Bulwer 

Lytton, Bart 20 

721 Dolores. Bv Airs. Forrester... . 20 

722 What’s Aline’s Aline. By George 

Alacdonald 20 

723 Alauleverer’s Alillions. B3 r T. 

Wemyss Reid 20 

724 Aly Lord and Aly Lady. By 

Mrs. Forrester 20 

725 Aly Ten Years’ Imprisonment. 

By Silvio Pellico 10 

726 Aly Hero. By Airs. Forrester... 20 
27 Fai’ r Women/ By Airs. Forrester 20 


no. PKICIC. 

728 Janet’s Repentance. By George 

Eliot 10 

729 Alignon. Airs. Forrester 20 

730 The Autobiography of Benja- 

min Franklin 10 

731 The Bayou Bride. By Airs. Alary 

E. Bryan 20 

732 From Olympus to Hades. By 

Airs. Forrester 20 

733 Lady Branksmere. By “The 

Duchess ” 20 

734 Viva. By Airs. Forrester 20 

735 Until the Day Breaks. By 

Emily Spender 20 

736 Roy and Viola. Airs. Forrester 20 

737 Aunt Rachel. By David Christie 

Murray. 10 

738 In the Golden Days. By Edna 

Lyall 20 

739 The Caged Lion. By Charlotte 

AI. Yonge 20 

7'40 Rhona. By Airs. Forrester 20 

741 The Heiress of Hilldrop; or, 

The Romance of a Young 
Girl. By Charlotte AI. Braeme, 
author of “ Dora Thorne ”. 20 

742 Love and Life. By Charlotte 

AI. Yonge 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 1st half 20 

743 Jack’s Courtship. By W. Clark 

Russell. 2d half 20 

744 Diana Carew; or, For a Wom- 

an’s Sake. By Mrs. Forrester 20 

745 For Another’s Sin ; or, A Strug- 

gle for Love. By Charlotte AI. 
Braeme, author of “ Dora 
Thorne ” 20 

746 Cavalry Life ; or, Sketches and 

Stories in Barracks aud Out. 

By J. S. Winter 20 

747 Our Sensation Novel. Edited 

by Justin H. AlcCarthy, M.P.. 10 

748 Hurrish : A Study. By the 

Hon. Emily Lawless 20 

749 Lord Vanecourt’s Daughter. By 

Alabel Collins 20 

754 How to be Happ.y Though Alar- 

ried. By a Graduate in the 
University of Alatrimony 20 

755 Alargery Daw. A Novel 20 

757 Love’s Alartyr. By Laurence 

Alma Tadema 10 

758 “ Good-bye, Sweetheart ! ” By 

Rhoda Broughton 20 

759 In Shallow Waters. By Annie 

Armitt 20 


The foregoing works, contained in The Seaside Library, Pocket Edition, 
are for sale by all newsdealers, or will be sent to any address, postage free, on 
receipt of price. Parties ordering by mail will please order by numbers. Ad- 

d ress 

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THE BEST AMERICAN HOME MAGAZINE. 

Price tiS Cents per Copy. Subscription Price $3.00 per Year. 


Among its regular contributors are Mary Cecil Hay, “The Duchess,” 
author of “ Molly Bawn,” Lucy Randall Comfort, Charlotte M. Braeme, 
author of “Dora Thorne,” Mrs. Alex.. McVeigh Miller, Mary E. Bryan, 
author of “Manch,” and Florence A. Warden, author of “ The House on the 
Marsh.” 


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The New York Fashion Bazar aims 
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suppose it succeeds. There is also a 
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The New York Fashion Bazar for 
this month, George Munro, publisher, 
is on our table, and an interesting 
number it is to the women of the land 
who have their spring costumes to 
make up. This magazine is standard 
and the best authority on matters of 
fashion.— Baptist Reflector. 

The current number of The New 
York Fashion Bazar, published by 
George Munro, New York, is an illus- 
trated library, as it were, of fashions 
in every branch of human wear. The 
figures, forms, and fittings are almost 
bewildering even to those who possess 
a quick eye to the subject that is so 
widely fascinating. The colored first 
page of' the cover is too attractive to 
such people to be resisted. The Fash- 
ion Colored Supplement forms the 
frontispiece to the preseut number. — 
New England Journal of Agriculture. 

We have received the last number of 
The New York Fashion Bazar, pub- 
lished by George Munro, New York 
City, the yearly subscription of which 
is only $3. Each number has a large 
colored fashion supplement, contain- 
ing New York and Paris fashions, and 
the book is full of illustrations of every 
conceivable article of ladies’ attire and 
descriptions how to make the same, 
besides serial stories and sketches and 
much miscellaneous matter.— Maine 
Farmer. 

The New York Fashion Bazar 
per copy. 


We have received the last number of 
The New York Fashion Bazar, and at 
a hasty glance we see it is an interest- 
ing magazine. Its fashions are useful 
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be made, and its stories are fascinat- 
ing. What more can we say? Address 
George Munro, 17 Vandewater Street, 
N. Y. — Worcester [Mass.] Chronicle. 

The New York Fashion Bazar, pub- 
lished by George Munro, is full of fash- 
ions and reading. It seems to be very 
full, and to be well adapted to the end 
sought. The yearly subscription is 
$3.00, or 25 cents a number. It is very 
large, containing seventy-four pages, 
large size. — Wilmington Morning 
Star. 

The New York Fashion Bazar con- 
tains an attractive variety of literary 
entertainments, stories, poems, sketch- 
es. etc., in addition to the display of 
ladies’ fashions which are its chief 
study. These are set forth with an 
array of pictures and descriptions 
which should leave nothing to doubt 
regarding the newest styles. The se- 
lection of embroidery patterns offers a 
tempting choice for artistic tastes. 
New York: George Munro. — Home 
Journal. 

The New York Fashion Bazar, with 
supplement, is one of the most inter- 
esting and ornamental periodicals that 
have reached the Herald office. It is 
issued by the publisher of the Fireside 
Companion and Seaside Library . — 
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The New York Fashion Bazar, pub- 
lished by George Munro, for this month, 
is a marvel of beauty and excellence. 
It is full of entertaining reading, and 
of the newest and most fashionable 
patterns and designs. It must be seen 
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is for sale by all newsdealers, price 25 cents 
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